CUCKOO, THE RAIN PROPHET 



NE cloudy autumn af- 

 ternoon while strolling 

 along a woodland path 

 I heard a weird 

 mournful voice plain- 

 tively calling for 

 many minutes. The 

 sound seemed to come 

 from a cluster of trees 

 across the glen near 

 by. After a little time 



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I came up with the 

 sorrowing creature 

 and found it seated on the drooping 

 bough of an old gnarled oak. It was a yellow-billed 

 cuckoo. 



Some of our birds had already departed for their winter 

 visit to the tropics, but the cuckoo still tarried in the haunts 

 of its summer home. It seemed to feel the solitude of the 

 autumn forest, and although its voice is seldom heard at 

 this time of year, it was now chanting its plaintive cry as if 



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