“Is that the same as the Tree Pipit?” said my hostess, who seemed to know more about birds than I had hoped.

“Oh, no,” I said quickly.

“What’s the difference exactly?”

“Well, one is tufted,” I said, doing my best, “and the other—­er—­climbs trees.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And of course the eggs are more speckled,” I added, gradually acquiring confidence.

“I often wish I knew more about birds,” she said regretfully.  “You must tell us something about them now we’ve got you here.”

And all this because of one miserable Cuckoo!

“By all means,” I said, wondering how long it would take to get a book about birds down from London.

However, it was easier than I thought.  We had tea in the garden that afternoon, and a bird of some kind struck up in the plane-tree.

“There, now,” said my hostess, “what’s that?”

I listened with my head on one side.  The bird said it again.

“That’s the Lesser Bunting,” I said hopefully.

“The Lesser Bunting,” said an earnest-looking girl; “I shall always remember that.”

I hoped she wouldn’t, but I could hardly say so.  Fortunately the bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for safety.

“Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?” I wondered.  “They have very much the same note during the breeding season.  But of course the eggs are more speckled,” I added casually.

And so on for the rest of the evening.  You see how easy it is.

However, the next afternoon a more unfortunate occurrence occurred.  A real Bird Authority came to tea.  As soon as the information leaked out, I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely out of the place; but it was not granted.  Our feathered songster in the plane-tree broke into his little piece.

“There,” said my hostess—­“there’s that bird again.”  She turned to me.  “What did you say it was?”

I hoped that the Authority would speak first, and that the others would then accept my assurance that they had misunderstood me the day before; but he was entangled at that moment in a watercress sandwich, the loose ends of which were still waiting to be tucked away.

I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised to remember, in case she wanted to say something, but she also was silent.  Everybody was silent except that miserable bird.

Well, I had to have another go at it.  “Blackman’s Warbler,” I said firmly.

“Oh, yes,” said my hostess.

“Blackman’s Warbler; I shall always remember that,” lied the earnest-looking girl.

The Authority, who was free by this time, looked at me indignantly.

“Nonsense,” he said; “it’s the Chiff-chaff.”

Everybody else looked at me reproachfully.  I was about to say that “Blackman’s Warbler” was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part of Somerset, when the Authority spoke again.