PHREST WEEK IN. APRIL 39 
sounds. The Wryneck (the cuckoo’s mate) 
was the musician, calling, I suppose, to 
attract a hen to himself and propose connu- 
bial attachment to her for the season. So 
closely did he keep to the bark that I only 
once caught sight of him and his curiously 
manked plumage: (see~ Part T;'p: 32)! At 
last he flew off to a meadow, and I saw him 
no more. I thought of the great journey 
that this one immigrant among many thou- 
sands of his own and other species must 
have made, and how assiduously (though 
perhaps he had only been a few hours in 
this country) he was carrying out the part 
that Nature had assigned to him. Our 
little feathered friends mysteriously reach 
our shores year by year as spring comes 
round. Unheard, unnoticed by any of us 
as we lie asleep (except perhaps now and then 
by the lighthouse keeper on the coast), one 
by one or in flocks, they make the journey 
across sea and land. Some come with feeble 
looping flight, lke the Long-tailed Tits, 
others on unhesitating wing, as the Swallows 
