IN QUEST OF RAVENS 51 



ries of America, just now a perfect cloud 

 of pink buds and blooms and tender green 

 leaves. Here sang catbirds, thrashers, wood 

 thrushes, robins, rose-breasted grosbeaks, a 

 blue golden-winged warbler, and I forget 

 what else. I had not traveled so far, half 

 disabled as I was, to listen to birds of their 

 quality. And the ravens? Well, at that 

 moment they must have an engagement else- 

 where. Perhaps they were still instructing 

 their young in the art of volitation. 



And now, having walked "about a 

 quarter," I was at Zeb McKinney's. There 

 was no need to inquire if he were at home. 

 Through the open door I could see that 

 the only occupants of the house were two 

 women : one young, one very old and stiff. 

 The latter, as was meet, came to speak to 

 the stranger. No, Mr. McKinney was not 

 at home ; he had gone down to the sawmill. 

 Ravens? Yes, they saw them once in a 

 while, but she did not remember noticing 

 any for some time back. The spring was 

 just below the house ; I should find a gourd 

 to drink from. 



I drank from the spring, pondered the 

 woman's "once in a while," took a look 



