“If it were a starling, what family would it belong to?”
I stopped to think, and then recollected what he had said a short time before.
“A crow, uncle.”
“Quite right, my boy; but that bird is not one of the crows. Try again.”
“I’m afraid to try, uncle,” I said.
“Why, my boy?”
“Because I shall make some silly mistake.”
“Then make a mistake, Nat, and we will try to correct it. We learn from our blunders.”
“It looks to me something of the same shape as a thrush or blackbird, sir,” I said.
“And that’s what it is, my boy. That bird is an oriole—the orange oriole; and there is another, the yellow oriole. Both thrushes, Nat, and out in the East there are plenty more of most beautiful colours, especially the ground-thrushes. But there is someone come to call us to feed, I suppose. We must go now.”