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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
14
"This
proceeding
of
the
cuckoo,
of
dropping
its
eggs
as
it
were
by
chance,
is
such
a
monstrous
outrage
on
maternal
affection,
one
of
the
first
great
dictates
of
nature,
and
such
a
violence
on
instinct,
that
had
it
only
been
related
of
a
bird
in
the
Brazils
or
Peru,
it
would
never
have
merited
our
belief....
She
is
hardened
against
her
young
ones
as
though
they
were
not
hers....
'Because
God
hath
deprived
her
of
wisdom,
neither
hath
He
imparted
to
her
understanding.'"
America
is
spared
the
infliction
of
this
notorious
"cuckoo."
Its
nearest
congeners,
our
yellow-billed
and
black-billed
cuckoos,
while
suggesting
their
foreign
ally
in
shape
and
somewhat
in
song,
have
mended
their
ways,
and
though
it
is
true
they
make
a
bad
mess
of
it,
they
at
least
try
to
build
their
own
nest,
and
rear
their
own
young
with
tender
solicitude.
The
nest
is
usually
so
sparse
and
flimsy
an
affair
that
you
can
see
through
its
coarse
mesh
of
sticks
from
below,
the
fledglings
lying
as
on
a
grid-iron
or
toaster;
and
it
is,
moreover,
occasionally
so
much
higher
in
the
centre
than
at
the
sides
that
the
chicks
tumble
out
of
bed
and
perish.
Still,
it
is
a
beginning
in
the
right
direction.
Yes,
it
would
appear
that
our
American
cuckoo
is
endeavoring
to
make
amends
for
the
sins
of
its
ancestors;
but,
what
is
less
to
its
credit,
it
has
apparently
found
a
scapegoat,
to
which
it
would
ever
appear
anxious
to
call
our
attention,
as
it
stammers
forth,
in
accents
of
warning,
"c,
c,
cow,
cow,
cow!
cowow,
cowow!"
It
never
gets
any
further
than
this;
but
doubtless
in
due
process
of
vocal
evolution
we
shall
yet
hear
the
"bunting,"
or
"black-bird,"
which
is
evidently
what
he
is
trying
to
say.
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