Left thus alone and disappointed, I hastened my flight to Paris, unfortunately losing my way. The journey with the Pigeon had been too rapid and unpleasant to leave any lasting impression of landmarks on my mind. I had made my way to Bourget, and was driven to seek shelter in the woods of Morfontaine just as night closed in. Every bird had sought its nest save the Magpies and Jays—the worst bedfellows in the world—who were quarrelling on all sides. On the borders of a brook two Herons stood gravely meditating, while close at hand a pair of forlorn husbands were patiently waiting the arrival of their giddy wives, who were flirting in an adjoining hedge. Loving Tomtits played in the underwood, beneath a tree where a busy Woodpecker was hustling her brood into a hollow in the trunk. On all sides resounded voices saying, “Come, my wife!” “Come, my daughter!” {252} “Come, my beauty!” “Here I am, my dear!” “Good-night, love!” “Adieu, my friends!” “Sleep well, my children!” [Illustration] The situation for a celibate was most embarrassing. I was almost tempted to seek the hospitality of some birds of my own size, as we all looked alike grey in the dark. At last perching on a branch where there was a row of different birds, and modestly taking the lower end, I hoped to remain unobserved; but I was disappointed. My nearest neighbour was an old Dove, as thin as a rusty weather-cock. The moment I approached her, the few feathers which covered her bones became the objects of her solicitude. She pretended to pick them, but as they had only a slender hold of her skin, merely passed them in review, to make sure she had her right number. Scarcely had I touched her with the tip of my wing, when, drawing herself up majestically, she said, “How dare you, sir?” administering at the same time a vigorous British push that sent me spinning into the heath, on the top of a Hazel Hen, who would have willingly made room for me, only her spare bed was taken up by a son returned from the harvesting.