"Never mind, old girl," says Tommy Swallow, after the first big cry
is over, to Jenny Swallow, "let's try again."

And half an hour later, full of fresh plans, they are choosing
another likely site, chattering cheerfully once more. I watched the
building of a particular nest for nearly a fortnight one year; and
when, after two or three days' absence, I returned and found a pair
of sparrows comfortably encsonced therein, I just felt mad. I saw
Mrs. Sparrow looking out. Maybe my anger was working upon my
imagination, but it seemed to me that she nodded to me:

"Nice little house, ain't it? What I call well built."

Mr. Sparrow then flew up with a gaudy feather, dyed blue, which
belonged to me. I recognised it. It had come out of the brush with
which the girl breaks the china ornaments in our drawing-room. At
any other time I should have been glad to see him flying off with the
whole thing, handle included. But now I felt the theft of that one
feather as an added injury. Mrs. Sparrow chirped with delight at
sight of the gaudy monstrosity. Having got the house cheap, they
were going to spend their small amount of energy upon internal
decoration. That was their idea clearly, a "Liberty interior." She
looked more like a Cockney sparrow than a country one--had been born
and bred in Regent Street, no doubt.

"There is not much justice in this world," said I to myself; "but
there's going to be some introduced into this business--that is, if I
can find a ladder."