S8 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



his beak wide open, lie lifted his voice above 

 those of his brothers and father, and sang the 

 most exquisite songs I ever heard from the throat 

 of a canary. He had especial opportunities to 

 learn music from a distant relative, the indigo finch 

 whose nest was in a honeysuckle a few yards from 

 the conservatory. This bird, from the top of a 

 mulberry even closer, sang his full strain at the 

 rate of five times a minute for an hour at a time 

 several hours during a day, making by reliable 

 mathematical calculation over two thousand daily 

 renderings of his song for the greater part of a 

 month. No wonder the canaries learned his notes 

 — the master singer especially. To me he was the 

 dearest bird in the Cabin, while everyone ad- 

 mitted that he was the finest singer; but his 

 broken leg was a daily annoyance to a member 

 of my family. One day, during my absence, a 

 woman, whose name and residence I could never 

 learn, called at the Cabin begging to be sold a 

 singer in order that she might raise young birds with 

 a hen canary she had, and my best beloved bird was 

 easily caught and given to her, which was a small 

 heartbreak from which I never have recovered. 

 When the birds of this cage were asleep in a row, 

 filling the highest perch, with their heads tucked 

 under their wings, and their feathers fluffed in cold 

 weather, they looked exactly like gaudy swan's 

 down powder puffs. 



Shortly after this, a relative of my husband, 



