126 ADVENTURES AMONG BIRDS 



all day long, all over the moor, cuckoos were cuckooing 

 as they flew hither and thither in their slow, aimless 

 manner, with rapidly beating wings, looking like spirit- 

 less hawks, and when one flew by a pipit would rise 

 and go after him, just to accompany him, as it appeared, 

 a little distance on his way. Not in anger like some 

 of the small birds, even the diminutive furze-jack who 

 cherishes a spite against the cuckoo, but in pure affec- 

 tion. For the meadow pipit is like that person, usually 

 a woman, whom we call a "poor fool" because of a too 

 tender heart, who is perhaps the mother of a great 

 hulking brute of a son who gobbled up all he could 

 get out of her, caring nothing whether she starved or 

 not, and when it suited his pleasure went off and took 

 no more thought of her — of the poor devoted fool 

 waiting and pining for her darling's return. The pipit's 

 memory is just as faithful; she remembers the big 

 greedy son she fed and warmed with her little breast a 

 year or two ago, who went away, goodness knows 

 where, a long time back; and in every cuckoo that flies 

 by she thinks she sees him again and flies after him to 

 tell him of her undying love and pride in his bigness and 

 fine feathers and loud voice. 



Who that knows it intimately, who sees it creeping 

 about among the grass and heather on its pretty little 

 pink legs, and watches its large dark eyes full of shy 

 curiosity as it returns your look, and who listens to its 

 small delicate tinkling strain on the moor as it flies up 

 and up, then slowly descends singing to earth, can fail 

 to love the meadow pipit — the poor little feathered fool ? 



