Mbere tbe /lDocftlng=birb Sfngs 



has a corner of an eye trained upon the 

 possibihty, remote as it may be, of stum- 

 bling against an opportunity for a memo- 

 rable shot. Even in a hammock he dozes 

 better when the yew and the quiver lie 

 contentedly beside him. The arrow-fea- 

 thers seem to fan his dreams. 



I recall some loiterings with the mock- 

 ing-birds in the country of the Creoles 

 along our Southern border. Those read- 

 ers who do not care for poetry may as 

 well pass by this little chapter. What the 

 mocking-bird does is all poetry; and al- 

 though I do but record unvarnished facts 

 of his history, they somehow, in spite 

 of my stumbling prose, fit themselves to- 

 gether with a melic tunefulness not to be 

 connected with ordinary realities, save by 

 the poet and the sylvan archer. 



If there is anything more dreamily 

 romantic than swinging in a hammock on 

 a breezy bluff of our Creole Gulf-coast 

 when the spring weather is fine, it would 

 be worth a good deal to experience it. 

 The wind from the Caribbean region has 

 nothing chilly in it; but it fondles you 

 67 



