‘Oh no, no, no, you don’t,’ I hear Agatha, above the Semi-Secret garden, say.
I turn to see a flutter of rust, high in the Cherry tree there, and down Agatha swoops from its branches into the Garden.
‘Steven!’ she calls.
I am already at the gate, letting myself in.
‘Your boy ...’ and by this Agatha means, of course, Peter Pan. ‘Your boy is snooping where he ought not to snoop.’
Being a Thrasher, Agatha is something of a recluse, to whom the Semi-Secret garden, with its high Privet hedge made for the perfect place to home. Her chicks tend to grow brave before they grow strong, often venturing from the nest able only to fly enough to keep them from dropping to the ground like a stone. There they hop about under Agatha’s watchful eye until they can take fully to the air.
Peter Pan is indeed between the flowers, with his nose to the ground. I would guess on the trail of a rabbit, but Peter Pan is young and not one to discriminate when it cuts to the chase.
‘Peter Pan!’ I call, and he comes, taking his time, on a path of his own devise, tromping and stomping and wagging his tail.
‘Gads,’ Agatha says, ‘What that boy does to your flowers.’
I sigh in agreement.
‘If only he was half as considerate as your chicks, Agatha.'
It’s best to pay Agatha a compliment or two after ruffling her feathers so.
We wish her a good day then, Peter Pan and I, and behind us close the gate.