The other day we heard the Cuckoo in Hampshire. (The next morning
the papers announced that the Cuckoo had been heard in
Devonshire--possibly a different one, but in no way superior to ours
except in the matter of its Press agent.) Well, everybody in the house
said, "Did you hear the Cuckoo?" to everybody else, until I began to
get rather tired of it; and, having told everybody several times that
I _had_ heard it, I tried to make the conversation more interesting.
So, after my tenth "Yes," I added quite casually:--
"But I haven't heard the Tufted Pipit yet. It's funny why it should be
so late this year."
"Is that the same as the Tree Pipit?" said my hostess, who seemed to
know more about birds than I had hoped.
"Oh, no," I said confidently.
"What's the difference exactly?"
"Well, one is tufted," I said, doing my best, "and the
other--er--climbs trees."
"Oh, I see."
"And of course the eggs are more speckled," I added, gradually
acquiring confidence.
"I often wish I knew more about birds," she said regretfully. "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?"