put more lumps into the net before the frost went.  I thought to myself it was almost a pity to try to save their lives; it was just a natural way of getting rid of a lot of them.  They do say that dying by cold is an easy way—­it’s like going to sleep; so I’m not wishing any great harm to the little things.  And now, Master Jack, how do you think these birds paid back your grandma for all her kindness?  Why, as soon as ever the frost was gone, and the weather became warmer, and the yellow crocuses came into bloom, if these very birds, or some of them at least, did not slit the flowers all to pieces with their bills—­that’s what they did.  The ground was covered with bits of flowers.—­Do you know Mrs. Jones who lives on the green, Master Jack?”

“No,” he said; “I don’t.”

“Well, she’s a great friend of your grandma’s; but she is not over-strong, and doesn’t get out in the winter.  She likes to have the birds about her, and she fed them on her lawn with crumbs and pieces; and her fine bed of crocuses in front of her windows was just spoiled.  It was mostly the yellow ones that they tore to shreds; and the primroses too—­there was hardly one fit to pick.  The starlings and the sparrows were the worst; they did a lot of mischief.”

“Oh,” said Jack, “perhaps they were after insects, or something they wanted to eat.  I don’t believe they meant to do any harm.”

“Perhaps not,” said the gardener; “but the crocuses were spoiled all the same.  You know, Master Jack, I’m about the place summer and winter, and I see a lot.  Now, if there’s one thing more than another that I hate about a garden, it’s cats.  They do trample down things and spoil the beds.  As this house is lonesome rather, we don’t get much of that pest, I’m glad to say; and then Smut is not a sociable cat.  But I’ll tell you of a curious thing that happened to him one day.  There was a pair of thrushes who had built their nest in the laurel hedge at the bottom of the garden next to the field.  You know, Master Jack, there’s a broad gravel path along the garden side of the hedge.  One day, just as the young birds were able to get out of the nest, the young cat at my cottage close by walked into this garden, where, of course, she’d no business; but there she was in that gravel path, and she saw one of the birds and caught it.  I saw her with it.  The thrushes scolded her, flew at her with a sharp, angry cry, and puss was soon off the premises.  The next day, Mr. Smut was walking along this gravel path, enjoying the sunshine in a quiet way, never thinking of birds, for he’s a deal too lazy to put himself out of the way to catch anything.  I’ve tried him with a mouse, but he never put out a paw to touch it.  He blinked at it in the most unconcerned way, and didn’t show the least bit of interest in it.  Well, as I said, Smut was walking along, when out flew the thrushes from the hedge, swooped down upon him, pounced on his back, pecked his head,