“Those funny little birds…why do they keep telling me to whip poor Will?” asked young Petunia. “Do they mean Will Camden next door? What’ve they got against poor Will?”

“It’s just what the birds’ call sounds like, dear,” said Auntie May. “They don’t actually want you to whip poor Will.”

I wanted her to whip poor Will
, one of the birds thought glumly. He throws rocks at us sometimes.