"Bound to say there's one this year.

S'pose I'm getting too old for birds'-nesting and climbing.

Don't see why I should be, though." He reached the river's bank at last, and after walking for a few yards, trampling down the white blossoms of the broad-leaved garlic, which here grew in profusion, and suggested salad, he reached a rippling shallow, stepped down into the river, and waded across, the water only reaching to his ankles.
As he stepped out on the other side, and kicked and stamped to get rid of the water, he gazed along the winding dale at as glorious a bit of English scenery as England can produce; and on that bright May morning, as he breathed in the sweet almond-like odour of the fully-blown hawthorn blossom, he muttered: "Linkeham's nice enough, but the lads would never believe how beautiful it is here.

Hallo! there he goes.

I wonder where they are building this year." He shaded his eyes as he looked up at a great blackbird, winging its way high up above the top of the great cliff which hung over the river, and watched till it disappeared, when, in a low melodious voice, he began singing softly another snatch of an old English song, something about three ravens that sat upon a tree, with a chorus of: "Down, a-down, a-down," which he repeated again and again, as if it helped him to reflect.
"Wonder where they are building this year," he said to himself again.
"I should like a couple of little ones to bring up.