sing was "Coo-roo! coo-roo!" And
she said mournfully to herself:--

"It is Zaica. She was wiser than I, and earlier, and the dream came
true for her. Oh dear! Oh dear!" And to this day Turtle-Dove flies about
sadly uttering her monotonous cry, and listening with a longing that
would be envy, were she not so good a little bird, to the chatter of her
friend the Jay.

For Zaica the Jay is always merry, hopping from tree to tree, playing
her jokes upon the other birds whom she deceives with her wonderful
voice. And she leads a life so gay and exciting that she never finds
time to be sad, even over the disappointment of her dear friend, poor
little Tourtourelle.

HOW THE BLACKBIRD SPOILED HIS COAT

Once upon a time, our friend Blackbird, who comes first of the feathered
brothers in the spring, was not black at all. No, indeed; he was
white--white as feather-snow new fallen in the meadow. There are very
few birds who have been thought worthy to dress all in beautiful white,
for that is the greatest honor which a bird can have. So, like the Swan
and the Dove, Master Whitebird--for that is what they called him
then--was very proud of his spotless coat.

He was very proud and happy, and he sang all day long, the jolliest
songs. But you see he did not really deserve this honor, because he was
at heart a greedy bird; and therefore a great shame came upon him, and
after that he was never proud nor happy any more. I shall tell you the
story of how the Whitebird grew grimy and gloomy as we know him, almost
as black and solemn as old Daddy Crow.

Once upon a time, then, Master Whitebird was teetering on a rose-bush,
ruffling his beautiful white feathers and singing little bits of poetry
about himself to any one who would listen.

"Ho-ho, ho-hee,
Just look at me!"

he piped, and cocked his little eyes about in every direction, to see
who might be admiring his wondrous whiteness.

But all on a sudden his song gurgled down into his throat and choked
itself still, and his eyes fixed themselves upon a tree close by. It was
a dead old tree, and there was a hole in the trunk halfway up to the
lowest limb, a round little hole about as big as your two fists.

Whitebird had seen something black pop into that hole in a sly and
secret way, and he began to wonder; for he was inquisitive, as most
birds are. He sat quite still on his rose-bush and watched and watched.
Presently out of the hole popped a black head, bigger