“It does seem curious for there to be cuckoos in America,” I said.
“I don’t see why, Nat,” he replied, as he carefully arranged his specimens. “You remember I told you it was a cuckoo, probably from Malacca, that you showed me you had bought; well, those you are about to unpack are some of the American representatives of the family. You will see that they are soft-billed birds, with a very wide gape and bristles like moustaches at the sides like thin bars to keep in the captives they take.”
“And what do they capture, sir?” I asked.
“Oh, caterpillars and butterflies and moths, Nat. Soft-bodied creatures. Nature has given each bird suitable bills for its work. Mind how you take out that bird. No: don’t lift it yet. See, that top row must come out after the whole of that layer which is arranged all over the top row’s tails.”
“What! do their tails go right along the box, uncle?” I cried.
“Yes, some of them, my boy. Be careful: those are very tender and delicate birds.”
I lifted one, and held it out to Uncle Joe, who came down from his seat to examine the glories of the bird I had in my hands.
It was something like the cinnamon-brown and crimson bird I had bought, but much larger. Its breast was of a vivid rosy crimson, and its back and head one mass of the most brilliant golden-green. Not the green of a leaf or strand of grass, but the green of glittering burnished metal that flashed and sparkled in the sunshine. It seemed impossible for it to be soft and downy, for each feather looked harsh, hard, and carved out of the brilliant flashing metal, while turn it which way I would it flashed and looked bright.
“Well, Nat,” said Uncle Dick, “what do you say to that?”
“Oh, uncle,” I cried; “it is wonderful! But that cannot be a cuckoo.”