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 a photographer to come and make a picture postcard of it, as they do of the handsomer houses.

During the time that she was raising her children Mr. Mistletoe was abroad, so he never knew how they got on. Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe, after watching Donny taking it easy under the trees, decided that they also deserved a holiday. For if the children could give a big sheep dog Nervous Prostration, you can imagine what they could do to their parents. And when Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe came home again, as soon as they had counted up the children and made sure that everything was all right, they asked about the thrush's nest. There was sad news to be told. The big nest had not been a success. It was draughty, inconvenient, and insecure. In the August thunderstorm season the whole untidy bundle had blown away in ruin and wreck. The young thrushes had been cast upon the world, and the stout matronly thrush was working somewhere as a stenographer.

It is a sad story and a true one, and as Mr. Mistletoe always added, it was his own fault. He should have let that stout thrush take only afew strips of tape, not the whole thing at once.