156 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



every day he practiced and improved. Then the moulting season came on. 

 It seemed to go hard with him. For a week I believed my little pet would 

 not survive. He lost nearly all his feathers at the same time, and the new 

 ones coming out at once, completely sapped his vitality. He did pull through, 

 however, and by the first of October was fully dressed in a new suit. It 

 was not different from the old one, except that now the faint splashes on 

 the breast were wanting, and there was a distinct whiteish line over each 

 eye. When hehad thoroughly recovered from the moult he resumed his 

 song once more and kept it up throughout the winter. As winter approach- 

 ed and insects became scarce, I gradually changed his food, his new bill 

 of fare consisting of various tidbits from the dining table and fruit. He was 

 not particular as to what he ate. I found that he liked nearly everything I 

 did, and some things I didn't. As a rare treat I occasionally gave him half a 

 dozen meal worms, which he ate with great relish. And so spring found him 

 just as brightly plumaged as any of the mockers fresh from the south. And 

 as spring advanced, he sang more, and from day to day showed marked im- 

 provement in his song. Long ago he had begun to exhibit that characteristic 

 of mimicing other birds and sounds. He could whistle the various tunes of 

 the Cardinal to perfection. And as spring arrivals began to arrive he added 

 each new song he heard to his medley until he might sing for a whole hour 

 and not repeat the same note twice. His song now grew in volume so that I 

 had to remove him to the porch again. The liquid notes of the martin he 

 knew by heart. He could rival the bluebird in the mellowness of its own 

 song. All the summer residents were represented in his medley. I had am- 

 ple opportunity to compare his vocal abilities with those of the wild mockers 

 that came to the yard. He was equal to them except that there was less 

 originality about his song. Onee in a great while he would take a spell, and 

 litterally floating from perch to perch, with his broad wings outspread and 

 body seemingly writhing in the agony of pent up joy, he would give voice to 

 melody that born alone in the very depths of his own little heart. Voiced the 

 joys of a life his instinct must have told him he was meant to lead — a life as 

 free as the fleecy clouds that floated in the azure sky. I thought sometimes 

 of giving him his freedom, but I was afraid. He had had no chance to de- 

 velop the instinct of self preservation. He would surely have fallen a vic- 

 tim to one of the many bird enemies. One evening just about dusk when I 

 went to his cage, I found he had escaped through one of the food dish open- 

 ings. It was too late to even attempt to find him. Next morning I rose early 

 and searched everywhere for him, but to no avail. He was nowhere to be 

 seen. Next day I saw him in the top of a great walnut. He paid no atten- 

 tion to my calling and a moment later, flew away. I gave up all hope of see- 

 ing him again. But on the morning of the third day I heard the old familiar 



