THE CUCKOO'S MATE 



THERE is a tree on the South Downs that has prob- 

 ably had more wrynecks on it than any other tree in 

 the British Isles. It stands on a high hump of the 

 Downs, far from other trees and at the edge of the 

 trench carved by one of the rivers in that great wold 

 of chalk. The river is a line of migration that has 

 guided the birds northward for thousands, or perhaps 

 millions, of years. The tree is the first resting-place 

 this side of the sea. All manner of birds, fainting just 

 a little from their long sojourn in the air, drop to this 

 tree and twitter there a while before resuming their 

 journey into Merrie England. 



Who can imagine the feelings of the returned wry- 

 necks as, on a genial April day, they feel the first 

 English twig between their claws after their stupend- 

 ous flight out of Africa ? It is not, however, the 

 supreme end of their homeward flight, and, tired as 

 they are, they take little rest in this Sussex tree. 

 Onward the little bands go, dropping units here and 

 there as last year's scattered homesteads are reached. 

 Our own wryneck is at length happy when he perches, 

 as well as a wryneck can perch, in the orchard of 

 twisted, moss-grown apple trees. The orchard is 

 happy when he breaks out into the flute-like " Hoo- 

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