“At least, someone ought to bring me food,” said the young cuckoo.
“How is that?” said the woodpecker.
“Well, oughtn’t they to?” said the young cuckoo.
“I wouldn’t say so,” said the woodpecker, “you have the use of your wits, haven’t you?” He ran round the trunk of the tree again and devoured a lean grub. The young cuckoo struggled at the opening and screamed again.
“Don’t be drawing too much attention to yourself,” advised the woodpecker when he came to the opening again. “They might take you for a young hawk, you know.”
“Who might?” said the cuckoo. “The neighbors. They would pull a young hawk to pieces.”
“What am I to do?” said the young cuckoo.
“What’s in your nature to do?”
“My nature?” said the young cuckoo. “It’s my nature to swing myself on branches high up in a tree. It’s my nature to spread out my wings and fly over pleasant places. It is my nature to be alone. But not alone as here. Alone with the sound of my own voice.” Suddenly he cried, “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!”
“I know you now,” said the woodpecker. “There’s going to be a storm,” he said; “trust a woodpecker to know that.”