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 with narrow white tape neatly held down by staples. But in one place this tape had got broken, so there was a loose end.

It was the time of year when birds are building nests. The thrush had just picked out a good site for hers, in the big oak tree above the drive, and then that loose white end of tape caught her eye. So while Mr. Mistletoe was loitering about the garden with nothing particular to do—and that was unusual, for people with four children generally have something definite to do, and someone to whom it ought to be done—he saw the thrush tugging fiercely at the piece of tape. There was something really very comic about the violence of her efforts. She braced her feet and jerked as hard as possible, many times in quick succession. But it wouldn't come. She would pause, pant a little, and you could see her speckled bosom heave. She was a stout matronly thrush, probably not as flexible as she had been once. You could almost hear her say to herself, "Well, for goodness sake!" when the tape wouldn't budge. Then she would try again. She did not know about the staples Mr. Mistletoe had so carefully hammered into the ground.

Mr. Mistletoe and the whole family admired