VII 

 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 



/^NE warm May morning, when the 

 tender green mantle of spring-time 

 was being gently laid across the breast of 

 the old earth, and all the birds were 

 twittering softly to themselves because 

 they were so glad, I heard a great com- 

 motion in the old elm near the house. 

 It was not a song, although there were 

 many voices, but the noisiest medley of 

 squeaks, squawks, pipes, whistles, and 

 other sounds too queer to have a name. 

 All of the tones were very wheezy, and 

 some sounded petulant and scolding. 



" The grackles have come," I said to 

 myself. " It must be a large flock. I 

 will go out and see." I found the old 



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