OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 65 
tipped with white on its side feathers. Its breast and 
the downy feathers that drooped about its legs were 
grayish white. 
I opened the cage door and it dropped to the 
ground. For an instant it erected head and tail until 
they formed a graceful V, then it glided away in an 
upward curve, and was lost amid the leaves of the 
grapevine. 
Since that I have seen it, a few feet away, with a 
large hairy caterpillar in its bill. Although so elusive 
in its habits, it seems to be very self-possessed when 
unexpectedly brought to view. 
Let us recite in concert William Woodsworth’s 
poem about 
THE CUCKOO 
O blithe new-comer! I have heard 
I hear thee and rejoice! 
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering voice. 
While I am lying in the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 
Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 
