“It is Zaica.  She was wiser than I, and earlier, and the dream came true for her.  Oh dear!  Oh dear!” And to this day Turtle-Dove flies about sadly uttering her monotonous cry, and listening with a longing that would be envy, were she not so good a little bird, to the chatter of her friend the Jay.

For Zaica the Jay is always merry, hopping from tree to tree, playing her jokes upon the other birds whom she deceives with her wonderful voice.  And she leads a life so gay and exciting that she never finds time to be sad, even over the disappointment of her dear friend, poor little Tourtourelle.

HOW THE BLACKBIRD SPOILED HIS COAT

Once upon a time, our friend Blackbird, who comes first of the feathered brothers in the spring, was not black at all.  No, indeed; he was white—­white as feather-snow new fallen in the meadow.  There are very few birds who have been thought worthy to dress all in beautiful white, for that is the greatest honor which a bird can have.  So, like the Swan and the Dove, Master Whitebird—­for that is what they called him then—­was very proud of his spotless coat.

He was very proud and happy, and he sang all day long, the jolliest songs.  But you see he did not really deserve this honor, because he was at heart a greedy bird; and therefore a great shame came upon him, and after that he was never proud nor happy any more.  I shall tell you the story of how the Whitebird grew grimy and gloomy as we know him, almost as black and solemn as old Daddy Crow.

Once upon a time, then, Master Whitebird was teetering on a rose-bush, ruffling his beautiful white feathers and singing little bits of poetry about himself to any one who would listen.

    “Ho-ho, ho-hee,
    Just look at me!”

he piped, and cocked his little eyes about in every direction, to see who might be admiring his wondrous whiteness.

But all on a sudden his song gurgled down into his throat and choked itself still, and his eyes fixed themselves upon a tree close by.  It was a dead old tree, and there was a hole in the trunk halfway up to the lowest limb, a round little hole about as big as your two fists.

Whitebird had seen something black pop into that hole in a sly and secret way, and he began to wonder; for he was inquisitive, as most birds are.  He sat quite still on his rose-bush and watched and watched.  Presently out of the hole popped a black head, bigger than Whitebird’s, with two wise little twinkling eyes.

“Oho!” said Whitebird to himself, “it is Mother Magpie up to her old tricks, hiding, hiding.  Maybe she has a treasure hidden there.  I will watch, and perhaps I shall find out something worth knowing.”

Mother Magpie was the wisest and the slyest of all the birds, and it was always worth while, as Whitebird knew, to take lessons of her.  So he sat perfectly still until she came cautiously back carrying something in her beak.  It was round and white and glinted like moonlight.  Whitebird’s eyes stuck out greedily.