afternoon, and a bird of some kind struck up in the plane-tree.

"There, now," said my hostess, "what's that?"

I listened with my head on one side. The bird said it again.

"That's the Lesser Bunting," I said hopefully.

"The Lesser Bunting," said an earnest-looking girl; "I shall always
remember that."

I hoped she wouldn't, but I could hardly say so. Fortunately the
bird lesser-bunted again, and I seized the opportunity of playing for
safety.

"Or is it the Sardinian White-throat?" I wondered. "They have very
much the same note during the breeding season. But of course the eggs
are more speckled," I added casually.

And so on for the rest of the evening. You see how easy it is.

However the next afternoon a most unfortunate occurrence occurred. A
real Bird Authority came to tea. As soon as the information leaked out
I sent up a hasty prayer for bird-silence until we had got him safely
out of the place; but it was not granted. Our feathered songster in
the plane-tree broke into his little piece.

"There," said my hostess--"there's that bird again." She turned to me.
"What did you say it was?"