“Sir, you are the Nestor of poetry. Can you suggest a remedy for this peculiarity of song?”
“No; during my youth I was much annoyed by it. Believe me, its effect indicates only the public inability to appreciate true inspiration.”
“That may be so. Permit me to give you an example of my style, after which you will be better able to advise me.”
“Willingly,” replied Cacatogan; “I am all ears.”
I tuned my pipe at once and had the satisfaction of seeing that he neither flew off nor fell asleep, but riveted his gaze on me, and from time to time displayed tokens of approbation. Soon, however, I perceived he was not listening; his flattering murmurs were lavished on himself.
Taking advantage of a pause in my song he instantly struck in, “It is the six-thousandth production of my brain, and who dare say I am old? My lines are as harmonious and my imagination as vivid as ever. I shall exhibit this last child of my genius to my good friends;” thus saying he flew off without another word.
V.
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!” “Come, my beauty!” “Here I am, my dear!” “Good-night, love!” “Adieu, my friends!” “Sleep well, my children!”
