he 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?"

I listened with my head on one side. The bird said it again.

"That's the Lesser Bunting," I said hopefully.

"The Lesser Bunting," said an earnest-looking girl; "I shall always
remember that."

I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. Fortunately the
bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for
safety.

"Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?" I wondered. "They have very
much the same note during the breeding season. But of course the eggs
are more speckled," I added casually.

And so on for the rest of the evening. You see how easy it is.

However the next afternoon a most unfortunate occurrence occurred. A
real Bird Authority came to tea. As soon as the information leaked out
I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely
out of the place; but it was not granted. Our feathered songster in
the plane-tree broke into his little piece.

"There," said my hostess--"there's that bird again." She turned to me.
"What did you say it was?"

I hoped that the Authority would speak first, and that the others
would then accept my assurance that they had misunderstood me the day
before; but he was entangled at that moment in a watercress sandwich,
the loose ends of which were still waiting to be tucked away.

I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised to remember, in case
she wanted to say something, but she also was silent. Everybody was
silent except that miserable bird.

Well, I had to have another go at it. "Blackman's Warbler," I said
firmly.

"Oh, yes," said my hostess.

"Blackman's Warbler; I shall always remember that," lied the
earnest-looking girl.

The Authority, who was free by this time, looked at me indignantly.

"Nonsense," he said; "it's the Chiff-chaff."

Everybody else looked at me reproachfully. I was about to say that
"Blackman's Warbler" was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part
of Flint, when the Authority spoke again.

"The Chiff-chaff," he said to our hostess with an insufferable air of
knowledge.

I wasn