Amenda, who was town-bred, mistook him at first for one of those cheap alarm clocks, and wondered who was winding him up, and why they went on doing it all night; and, above all, why they didn't oil him.
He would begin his unhallowed performance about dusk, just as every respectable bird was preparing to settle down for the night.

A family of thrushes had their nest a few yards from his stand, and they used to get perfectly furious with him.
"There's that fool at it again," the female thrush would say; "why can't he do it in the daytime if he must do it at all ?" (She spoke, of course, in twitters, but I am confident the above is a correct translation.) After a while, the young thrushes would wake up and begin chirping, and then the mother would get madder than ever.
"Can't you say something to him ?" she would cry indignantly to her husband.

"How do you think the children can get to sleep, poor things, with that hideous row going on all night?
Might just as well be living in a saw-mill." Thus adjured, the male thrush would put his head over the nest, and call out in a nervous, apologetic manner:-- "I say, you know, you there, I wish you wouldn't mind being quiet a bit.
My wife says she can't get the children to sleep.

It's too bad, you know, 'pon my word it is." "Gor on," the corncrake would answer surlily.

"You keep your wife herself quiet; that's enough for you to do." And on he would go again worse than before.
Then a mother blackbird, from a little further off, would join in the fray.
"Ah, it's a good hiding he wants, not a talking to.