Yet the wood-pigeon, one of the wildest and shyest of birds, will soon become tame, will feed from the hand, and when the miserable, suspicious sparrow rushes into hiding, will sit in the aviary unconcerned and confident of friendship. But note this curious difference. The sparrow in an aviary will breed, lay its eggs, and bring up its young ones, without any difficulty. The ring-dove may walk about at nesting-time with twigs in its mouth, may lay eggs, but let the aviary be never so large, it will not hatch its eggs. This contradiction in character is very extraordinary, and yet, if considered, there is no irregularity in it. The sparrow builds simply because it will build anywhere, and is accustomed to the neighbourhood of men. But it never becomes in the least friendly: never even lays aside a suspicion which would be unbecoming in a Central African finch. The ring-dove, on the other hand, recognises at once a benevolent intention, becomes quite tame, and yet, during the nesting-season, cannot accommodate itself to conditions so outrageous to its nature. For it loves to build its platform in the most secluded spots, not always far from human habitation, but as far as possible out of sight. Again, in protecting its young, this timid bird becomes very bold. I remember taking a young cushat from a tree and trying to rear it by hand, but it was almost full-grown, well-feathered, and too old for the purpose. After two days' very unsuccessful experiments, I took it out on the lawn in a basket, on the chance of its parents being about, and the result was certainly as surprising as it was unlooked-for. The young bird, when we had all retired, began to show signs of excitement, stretching its neck up, and looking all round it vaguely; then it perched on the rim of the basket, and thoroughly searched the tree-tops, and all of a sudden it either saw or heard something that we did not, for it brightened up, stretched its neck to the utmost, looking excitedly in a particular direction, and then flew its first flight, heavily, but straight, to the top of an arbour. Scarcely had its feet touched the roof when, as if by magic, one of the old birds appeared at its side and began at once to feed it. None of us stirred, and, as soon as the meal was finished, the old bird hopped up to an overhanging branch, the young one following, and so up into the tree, and from that one to the next, and the next, till, in a few minutes, it had travelled along the tree-tops a hundred yards away. Now, the old birds must have been waiting about the house all the two days, for it is hardly likely that the taking out of the young one on to the lawn could have accidentally coincided with the coming of the old one to the same spot. [Illustration: "_The plovers scatter o'er the heath_"]