116 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



hay wagon on the highway, and the neigh of a 

 horse in an adjoining field, we came from hiding, 

 cautiously crept through the willows and under- 

 brush until we could get a clear view of the singer, 

 perched in the tiptop of the highest poplar tree of 

 a clump nearby, singing to split his throat. He 

 was a bird of pure greys with a greyish white vest 

 and touches of white on his dark wing feathers. 

 There is nothing he possibly could have been except 

 a Southern mocking bird. I was extremely fami- 

 liar with three birds of this kind, which were kept 

 in captivity at that time in a home of a friend of 

 mine whose residence lay scarcely a mile away on 

 the outskirts of the village. I was so sure that 

 one of his birds had escaped that I stopped at night 

 on my way home to tell him where his pet could 

 be found, and to make sure again that I could not 

 be mistaken in the identity of the singer. The 

 birds were all in their room. They were exact re- 

 productions of the one I had heard. Returning to 

 work the following morning in the same location, 

 I took with me my daughter, who recently had 

 been visiting in Asheville, North Carolina, where, I 

 had heard her say, these birds were very numerous 

 and almost impudently tame. I did not tell her 

 of my experience the day before, but took her with 

 me to the blind where I had been hiding, fervently 

 hoping that the mocking bird would be in the same 

 locality and sing again. About ten o'clock I heard 

 him calling in the bushes, and a few minutes later 



