In bright July
He's ready to fly,
In August
Go he must.''

Our bird must go in August, too, but at no time does he sing all day.
Indeed, his peculiar guttural call has none of the character of a song.
It is a solitary, hermit-like sound, as if the bird were alone in the
world, and called upon the Fates to witness his desolation. I have
never seen two cuckoos together, and I have never heard their call
answered; it goes forth into the solitudes unreclaimed. Like a true
American, the bird lacks animal spirits and a genius for social
intercourse. One August night I heard one calling, calling, a long
time, not far from my house. It was a true night sound, more fitting
then than by day.

The European cuckoo, on the other hand, seems to be a joyous, vivacious
bird. Wordsworth applies to it the adjective "blithe," and says:--

"I hear thee babbling to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers."

English writers all agree that its song is animated and pleasing, and
the outcome of a light heart. Thomas Hardy, whose touches always seem
true to nature, describes in one of his books an early summer scene
from amid which "the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding
through the still air." This is totally unlike our bird, which does not
sing in concert, but affects remote woods, and is most frequently heard
in cloudy weather. Hence the name of rain-crow that is applied to him
in some parts of the country. I am more than half inclined to believe