Looking out of my window before six o'clock one bright morning in early
summer, I chanced to see a large bird sitting quietly on the gravel
walk. Its feathers were ruffled as if it felt cold and miserable, and
its drooping head told a tale of unhappiness from some cause or other.
Whilst I was watching it, a little bird darted with all its force
against the larger one, and made it roll over on the path; it slowly
rose up again, but in another minute a bird from the other side flew
against it and again rolled it over. Such conduct could not be
tolerated, so, dressing quickly, I went out, and picking up the strange
bird I found it was a young cuckoo nearly starved to death, having, as I
supposed, lost its foster-parents. The bird was in beautiful plumage,
except down the front of its throat, where the repeated attacks of the
small birds in showing their usual enmity towards the cuckoo, had
stripped off the feathers. The poor bird was only skin and bone, nearly
dying from lack of food and persecution, and made no resistance when I
brought him in to see if I could act the part of foster-mother.
Finely-mixed raw meat and brown bread seemed to me the best substitute
for his insect diet--but he _was_ an awkward baby to feed--though
sinking for want of nourishment he would not open his great beak, and
every half-hour he had to be fed sorely against his will with many
flapping of his wings and other protests of his bird nature. He would
not stay quiet in any sort of cage, but when allowed to perch on the rim
of a large basket quite free, he remained happily enough by the hour
together. After a few days he grew into a vigorous, active bird, flying
round the room, and too wild to be retained with safety He was
therefore let loose, and soon flew quite out of sight. I should hope he
was quite able to support himself by his own exertions. I must say he
showed no gratitude for my benevolent succour in his time of need.
[Illustration: YOUNG CUCKOO ATTACKED BY BIRDS]
[Illustration]