XVIII 



THE MOURNING DOVE 



ONE of my earliest recollections is of a hired man by 

 the name of Dan Scott who used to take a great 

 deal of interest in me, whether for his own pleasure or for 

 mine I am not sure, but probably for both. Every eve- 

 ning he would take me on his knees and tell me "ring- 

 tails" for an hour or so, and they certainly were "ring- 

 tails." He it was who soberly informed me that if I put 

 salt on a bird's tail I could catch it. I supposed any or- 

 dinarily bright boy ought to have seen the joke, but with 

 me it was a serious matter; and I used to spend hours 

 slipping through the woods and along the hedge fences 

 with both hands full of salt, fully determined to put salt 

 on the tails of all the birds in the neighborhood so that 

 I could catch them. 



I suppose this idea of being able to catch birds appeals 

 to all boys. My good mother always told me that in 

 heaven the birds will be perfectly tame and that we shall 

 not have to keep them in cages in order to have them for 

 pets. Most of my pet birds were gentle enough to come 

 to me in any place and at any time, though they flew in 

 the open the same as any other bird; but the experience 

 I am now to tell came after my dismal failure to tame 

 birds by putting salt on their tails. 



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