A Cuckoo sat on a bough, bitterly complaining.
"Why art thou so sad, dear friend?" sympathizingly cooed the
Turtle-dove to her, from a neighbouring twig. "Is it because spring
has passed away from us, and love with it; that the sun has sunk lower,
and that we are nearer to the winter?"
"How can I help grieving, unhappy one that I am?" replied the Cuckoo:
"thou shalt thyself be the judge. This spring my love was a happy one,
and, after a while, I became a mother. But my offspring utterly
refused even to recognize me. Was it such a return that I expected
from them? And how can I help being envious when I see how ducklings
crowd around their mother--how chickens hasten to the hen when she
calls to them. Just like an orphan I sit here, utterly alone, and know
not what filial affection means."
"Poor thing!" says the Dove, "I pity you from my heart. As for me,
though I know such things often occur, I should die outright it my
dovelets did not love me. But tell me, have you already brought up
your little ones? When did you find time to build a nest? I never saw
you doing anything of the kind: you were always flying and fluttering
about."
"No, indeed!" says the Cuckoo. "Pretty nonsense it would have been if
I had spent such fine days in sitting on a nest! That would, indeed,
have been the highest pitch of stupidity! I always laid my eggs in the
nests of other birds."
"Then how can you expect your little ones to care for you?" says the
Turtle-dove.