“That is not what the bird does. The egg is laid on the ground, anywhere; then the mother takes it up in her beak, puts it in a sort of pocket at the base of her gullet—a pocket provided for that purpose—and flies through the neighboring thickets on the lookout for a place for its final reception. When she finds a nest to suit her she stretches her neck over the edge, opens her beak, and lets the egg gently drop among the others. That done, the cuckoo flies away and never returns to learn the result. Other eggs are placed in the same way, here and there, one by one, in different nests.” “And do the owners of the nests make no objections?” asked Jules. “If they are at home they receive the cuckoo with angry pecks and chase her away; but she usually succeeds in choosing the right moment and approaches the nest by stealth when the owners are absent.” “But when they come back they must see at least that there is a strange egg in the nest and throw it out.” “Not at all. Whether or not the mother bird perceives that there is an egg too many, I could not say. But at any rate, as there must be cuckoos in the world, things are so arranged that their species shall not become extinct, and all the eggs in the nest are watched over and hatched with impartial care, until the last young bird is out. At first all goes well enough: the young ones need but little food, and for one more the parents can easily find enough worms. All are fed alike, with no more for the children of the house than for the stranger. “But pretty soon the young cuckoo is found to be growing faster than the others; it will soon need for itself alone all the food that its foster-parents can possibly secure with the utmost industry; it is always opening its wide beak, always complaining of hunger. Moreover, it is cramped for room in the little house of hair and wool. Its featherless body, squatting there flat and red, its large head, its bottomless abyss of a beak, its big, bulging eyes, all give it the appearance of a toad sitting at the bottom of the nest. There is no longer room in the house for all its inmates, nor yet enough food to live on. Then a dreadful deed is done. The young cuckoo slips under one of the little birds, takes it on its back, which is hollowed as if for the purpose, and holds it there by slightly raising its wings. Dragging itself backward to the raised rim of the nest, it rests a moment, and then throws the burden over.” “The horrid creature throws out of the nest the little one of the bird that feeds it?” exclaimed Emile incredulously. “Yes, in cold blood, so as to have more room for itself. With the tips of its wings it feels around for a moment to make sure the little bird is gone, and then returns to the bottom of the nest to go through the same process with another. And so they all go, one after another, to the very last; all are thrown out of the nest.” “I’d like to be there to catch him at it—the scoundrel!” was Emile’s comment.