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AIR Variation of the Ranz des Vaches. Ye meadows, farewell! Ye pastures so glowing! The herdsman is going, For summer has fled! We depart to the mountain; we'll come back again, When the cuckoo is calling, when wakens the strain, When the earth is tricked out with her flowers so gay, When the stream sparkles bright in the sweet month of May. Ye meadows, farewell! Ye pastures so glowing!
Strangely enough, our American cuckoos are not given to such slovenly habits, but build their own nests and faithfully perform the duties of nidification, as all respectable feathered folk should. However, this parasitical habit breaks out, quite unexpectedly, it must be conceded, in another American family of birds entirely distinct from the cuckoo group.
Yes, Cuckoo, the lady of the feathers, the blessed damozel of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus, the painted and possessed, faded and degraded, wanderer of the pavements, seemed to become the centre of this wheel of circumstances, as Doctor Levillier reflected upon her. It was time for him to go to Cuckoo.
She looked at Julian, and felt as indifferent towards him as if he had been a shadow on the grass in the evening time. Then he became remote, with a removedness attained by no shadow even. For a shadow is in the world, and Julian seemed beyond the world to Cuckoo.
Why not make certain inquiries of Mademoiselle? "But do little birds ever talk?" returned Gwendolyn, undaunted. The boa was thin at one point. She tied a knot in it. "And which little bird is it that tells things to to people?" Then, more to herself than to Mademoiselle, who was still deep in her letter, "I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't the little bird that's in the cuckoo clock, though "
For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May!" Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon the board, roaring, "Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!" until the rafters rang. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth clear.
He is locally supposed to begin his song with the words "Chiswick Eyot! Chiswick Eyot!" which indeed he does pretty exactly. Early on summer mornings I always see cuckoos hunting for a place to drop an egg. In the summer of 1900 a young cuckoo was hatched from a sedge-warbler's nest, and spent the rest of the summer in the gardens opposite this and the next houses.
"You feels the parting, lydy," he began. "Very nat'ral, very. I knows what it is." He extended Jessie, now whining furiously, towards Cuckoo. "Want to sy good-bye, lydy?" he said. Cuckoo shook her head. The old man popped Jessie into one of the capacious side-pockets of his coat and buttoned the flap down. "Mornin', lydy," he said, turning towards the door. Cuckoo made no reply.
No cuckoo clocks in those vague sweeps below. "Can we not go down a little bit?" said Maria Angelina gently. "Farther down again we might find the right path. .
On the mounds grew corn marigolds, so brilliantly yellow that they seemed to shine in the sunlight, and on a wall moth-mullein flowered high above the foxgloves. It was curious to hear the labouring people say, "There's the guckoo," when the cuckoo cried. They said he called "guckoo"; so cuckoo sounded to their ears.
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