44 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



hollow carefully, and began shaping around him 

 the structure of an oriole's hammock for its nest 

 exactly as the female bird weaves in freedom. 



He loved water, often bathing two or three 

 times during the day. He was a practical joker, 

 one of his tricks being to pick up any large pebble 

 from the sand in the bottom of his cage, carry it 

 to the highest perch, and leaning over, drop it in 

 his bath to make the water splash. So long as I 

 watched him and laughed at him, he would keep 

 this up. If I was reading and did not notice his 

 performance, he would resort to some other means 

 of attracting my attention. He was a fine musi- 

 cian and kept the house filled with joyous oriole 

 notes all day. 



In those days I was experiencing constant strug- 

 gle to find an outlet for the tumult in my being. 

 On a fourth of a square in a village not a mile 

 from the Limberlost, we laid the foundations of a 

 home. The lot was covered with several tall for- 

 est trees, an old orchard of eight apple trees, scat- 

 tering peach, pear, plum, and cherry, and had been 

 thickly planted years before with bushes, vines, 

 and flowers. Here, my husband built the log cabin 

 of my dreams for me. During my early days in 

 that Cabin I went through more agony than should 

 fall to the lot of the average seeker after a form 

 of self-expression. 



Because I dearly loved music I thought that 

 might be my medium. Never was any one more 



