"You
must tell us something about them now we've got you here."
And all this because of one miserable Cuckoo!
"By all means," I said, wondering how long it would take to get a book
about birds down from London.
However, it was easier than I thought. We had tea in the garden that
afternoon, and a bird of some kind struck up in the plane-tree.
"There, now," said my hostess, "what's that?"
I listened with my head on one side. The bird said it again.
"That's the Lesser Bunting," I said hopefully.
"The Lesser Bunting," said an earnest-looking girl; "I shall always
remember that."
I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. Fortunately the
bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for
safety.
"Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?" I wondered. "They have very
much the same note during the breeding season. But of course the eggs
are more speckled," I added casually.
And so on for the rest of the evening. You see how easy it is.
However the next afternoon a most unfortunate occurrence occurred. A
real Bird Authority came to tea. As soon as the information leaked out
I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely
out of the place; but it was not granted. Our feathered songster in
the plane-tree broke into his little piece.
"There," said my hostess--"there's that bird again.
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