TRAGEDY IN THE NEST. 81 
Then she flew down among the short grass, 
and—no natural-history book seems to tell 
us what she fed on. Seeds, perhaps. Cater- 
pillars, they say—hairy ones, possibly drinker- 
moth caterpillars. At that time not three 
trees in ten had leaves out; and no moths 
had appeared except one small wonder who 
had been dipped in flowers of sulphur ; whilst 
but a few cabbage-white butterflies were born 
in the noon, to die that self-same night. 
Never mind, though. She did feed, and 
because of it, and because Nature had use for 
her, she lived to be sitting upon the bough 
of an oak-tree, some time later, just—well, 
picking her teeth. 
Anon she flew down among the grass— 
which, by the way, was longer than when she 
had arrived first. Then she flew up—a small 
bird, two small birds, assisting her with energy. 
Then she flew down the hedge. Then she— 
vanished. 
Suddenly she appeared, coming back again 
at full speed, and in business-like silence. She 
was in a hurry. She had an egg in her beak, 
and very gingerly was she carrying it, too, 
since not for anything in the world would she 
have smashed that egg. It was the cuckoo’s 
own egg. If you had not had me to swear 
to you that it was the cuckoo’s egg, you 
