A GIFT OF THE BIRDS 31 



veranda. That was a mistake. Either a screech 

 owl or a rat attacked him in the night and broke 

 the tip of one*wing. In the morning Peter hopped 

 from his open door and showed me his wing. We 

 did all we could to comfort each other. I doctored 

 him as in childhood I had doctored the hawk. I 

 never shall forget the fortitude with which he 

 bore the amputation, not struggling nor making the 

 slightest effort to get away from me, although he 

 cried pitifully. The wing soon healed, but Peter 

 had lost his equilibrium. He never again could 

 fly. Always before, he had had the freedom of the 

 premises. Now he was forced to ride on my 

 shoulder when I went out into the yard, or to hop 

 after me. There was one particular apple tree of 

 our dooryard in which there was a perch where I 

 could learn a lesson much more easily than in 

 school. While I studied, Peter hopped from branch 

 to branch through the tree. One day under 

 pressure of an especially difficult Latin translation 

 I forgot to take Peter with me to the apple tree. 

 A maid in the house saw that he was fretting to 

 be with me, so she put him outside the door. I 

 heard his call, realized he was coming, and climbed 

 down as speedily as possible, but before I could 

 reach him a prowling cat darted from under a 

 shed and caught him. Powerless to give him any 

 aid, I listened to his last, pitiful calls. With one 

 exception he was the most interesting bird I ever 

 raised by hand. 



