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.