t that bird. No: don't lift it yet. See, that top
row must come out after the whole of that layer which is arranged all
over the top row's tails."

"What! do their tails go right along the box, uncle?" I cried.

"Yes, some of them, my boy. Be careful: those are very tender and
delicate birds."

I lifted one, and held it out to Uncle Joe, who came down from his seat
to examine the glories of the bird I had in my hands.

It was something like the cinnamon-brown and crimson bird I had bought,
but much larger. Its breast was of a vivid rosy crimson, and its back
and head one mass of the most brilliant golden-green. Not the green of
a leaf or strand of grass, but the green of glittering burnished metal
that flashed and sparkled in the sunshine. It seemed impossible for it
to be soft and downy, for each feather looked harsh, hard, and carved
out of the brilliant flashing metal, while turn it which way I would it
flashed and looked bright.

"Well, Nat," said Uncle Dick, "what do you say to that?"

"Oh, uncle," I cried; "it is wonderful! But that cannot be a cuckoo."

"Why not, Nat? If cuckoos are slaty coloured here and have breasts
striped like a hawk, that is no reason why in the hot climates, where
the sun burns your skin brown, they should not be brightly coloured in
scarlet and green. You have seen that the modest speckled thrush of
England has for relatives thrushes of yellow and orange. What has the
poor cuckoo done that his hot country friends should not be gay?"

"But do these lovely creatures suck all the little birds' eggs to make
their voices clear?"

"And when they cry `cuckoo' the summer draws near, eh, Nat? No, my boy,
I think not. To begin with, I believe that it is all a vulgar error
about the cuckoo sucking little birds' eggs. Doubtless cuckoos have
been shot with eggs in their mouths, perhaps broken in the fall, but I
think the eggs they carried were their own, which, after laying, they
were on their way to put in some other bird's nest to be hatched, as it
is an established fact they do; and because they are very small eggs
people think they are those of some other bird that the cuckoo has
stolen."

"Are cuckoos' eggs small, uncle?" I said.

"Very, my boy, for so large a bird. I have seen them very little larger
than the wagtail's with which they were placed. Then as to their crying
`cuckoo' when summer draws near. I have heard their notes, and they
live in a land of eternal s