"How come you went an' hurt Mocky's feelin's so bad, Ut?" she scolded. "If I was you I'd be shame. I declare to Gawd, you' patience is too short for you to be a big grown man like you is." "But, Honey

"Don' be honeyin' me, now. Mocky cried so hard Joe had to take 'em home. I had to finish de ironin' and cook de dinner too, all by myself. I'm weary enough to die."

Her eyes looked big and hollow, and dark shadows lay underneath them.

"I'm too sorry, Harpa. Whyn't you call me?"

"Call you? How'd I know whe' you was?"

They walked on without speaking until Harpa added sorrowfully, "I was countin' on gwine to town wid you dis evenin', an' now I'm too wore-out. I can' go.'

"De ride would do you good." "Good! Ridin' in dat old rough ramshackle wagon would'n do nobody good. My bones would sure be shook to pieces. My back's mos' broke now.'

Poor little Harpa, so thin and frail, and sometimes so strangely sad.

While Ut ate the dinner she had cooked for him, Harpa sat down by the window so that the light from the overcast sky could fall on the faded, freshly washed and ironed overalls which she had started to mend stitch by stitch.

Her eyes lifted from her sewing now and then to rest on the faint blue hills far across the river swamp. She and those hills were in some way alike now; both so softly curved, so tender and lovely, both so far

away from him, so out of his reach. All his life those mysterious hills over the river yonder had stood for better things than anything he had ever known on earth, as if they were a part of Heaven itself. Yes, Harpa was like them.

He went and stood by her trying to think of some suitable word to say. Poor little tired Harpa, mending and mending, working for him, placing the small industrious stitches side by side. He bent over and kissed the back of her slender neck, then gave one little hand a gentle pat; but the needle it held pricked him sharply, as the hand jerked away from his caress.

"You better hurry an' go on to town, Ut. I see a cloud a-risin' yonder over the river."

He followed the look her bluegreen eyes flashed up at the sky, where in truth, ragged clouds were piling. She was right. He must be going.

"I hate so bad to leave you by you'self, Harpa."

"Sounder'll be here wid me." "I'll hurry back quick as I can, Honey. What must I fetch you from town?"

"I don' want nuttin."
"Nuttin?"

"Not nuttin."

Harpa was out of sorts, downhearted for truth; but he would fetch something for her. Maybe he could find her a string of red glass beads to wear with her pretty red stockings. They'd be beautiful around her slim neck, against her warm yellow skin.

"Good-by, Harpa."
"Good-by, Ut."

"Don' git lonesome, Honey."

Harpa did not answer. "I'm too sorry you ain' gwine wid

me.”

No answer again.

As Ut went down the steps Harpa called to him, “You better go by an' see you' Ma! You ain' seen 'em nct since week befo' las."

Harpa was right, he must not forget his kind old mother. When he bought Harpa's beads he might buy his mother a little present too, maybe a red and white head-kerchief to tie on her head for Sunday. "Good-by, Harpa!" "Good-by, Ut!"

263

The mule was slow and the cloud and night both caught Ut on the way home. The steady rain cut clear through his clothes and reached his skin, cold and wet. He went by the Quarters to give his mother the pound of sugar he had bought for her to make sweetened bread; since Harpa's beads had cost so much he had not had enough money left for a head-kerchief.

She plead with him to stop long enough to dry his clothes, but he wouldn't, for Harpa was by herself except for Sounder. When he jerked up the rope lines and urged the mule to hurry, the foolish old beast, remembering his old home at the Quarters would not budge. Ut bawled at him sternly, then doubled back a rope line and gave him some loud wallops; but the tough-mouthed hard-headed old creature lifted his head, and stretching out his neck gave a long mournful "hee-hee-a haw-haw-haw," as if sorrow were breaking his heart. Instead of moving he took one unwilling step forward, then he stumbled and almost

fell, for his forefoot had picked up a nail. A mean, ugly, crooked, rusty nail which had dug through his hoof clear down to the bone.

Those old Quarter houses were always dropping rusty nails out of their rotten sides, and now one had crippled the mule's foot and he could not walk another step. Ut would have to leave the wagon and rations with his mother, and walk home to Harpa.

A wet gray moon gave out a poor dim light as he took a short cut through the woods; but he knew the way well, and in a little while he was climbing the hill through the pattering rain to the solid black blur which was home. He thought Harpa would have had a bright fire burning, and be standing in the door watching for him; but the cabin was dark and still. She must have gotten tired and gone to sleep.

That was good. He would surprise her. He would tiptoe in and lay the beautiful red glass beads in her hand. They would wake her. Precious little Harpa. When Sounder came sniffling and whining to meet him, Ut hushed him with a pat. Sounder must be quiet so Harpa would not wake until the time came.

The rain sang gaily as it fell off the cabin roof and splashed down off the eaves. But the bed and the chairs in the big room were empty. Harpa must be asleep in the shedroom. A loose board squeaked sharply under Ut's weight, and Harpa cried out of the blackness in the shed-room, "Great Gawd! What is dat?”

The pitiful terror in her voice made Ut smile. But before he could tell her it was he, Ut, her own hus

band, Joe was saying with a laugh, "Don' be so scary, gal. Po' ole Ut ain' half-way home, not yet."

Ut's horrified ears seized the whis

pered words and he tried to yell; but his frozen tongue could make no sound. His ears began roaring like the river in a flood. He could not think for its noise. But through the clear darkness his eyes saw his gun standing in the corner. It would tell them in one word that he was home. Joe must have heard the trigger click, for he struck a match. Then he leaped up, dropping it right in the folds of Harpa's flowered dress, which lay crumpled and empty on the foot of the bed.

"Ut-you fool-put down dat gun!" Joe shouted between chattering teeth. But the gun spoke one loud short word that answered him forever.

The weak flame of the match sputtered and threatened to die, then it seized avidly on the thin cotton cloth, flaring up bright.

Harpa slid to the floor, shivering, tottering, on her bare feet-then she fell on her knees. "Ut-for Christ's sake-Ut!" she quavered. But some devil inside Ut made him laugh. He told her to pray to her maker, and not to him now.

Harpa took in one long gasping breath then let it out in a thin wild shriek, "Oh-h-ee-!" She tried to wrench the gun from his hands, but he gave her a hard backward shove toward the bed.

Ut was not certain what happened. The gun must have aimed at her and fired before he let it fall; for red blood, red flesh, hid her breast. Burning cloth made a bitter stench. The whole room was afire; bed,

walls, floor-all fed the growing flames as they sputtered and roared up toward the ceiling.

He must go. But go where? His old lame mule had a stall, but he had no place in the world now.

Looking back once more he saw Harpa's two little empty shoes standing bravely side by side on the floor. floor. Slamming the door hard behind him, he rushed out of the cabin into the yard where red shadows flew about thick in the air. They ran under his feet, tripping him, blinding him; red flames stuck thin long fingers through the cracks of the cabin, pointing at him, reaching for him, making him stumble. Before he knew what he was about, he had fallen on his knees and prayers were slipping through his lips.

"Do, Jesus-master-look down on dis poor meeked man-I'm done ruint-ruint—”

A sheet of fire lifted the cabin roof, sparks flew clear up to the sky. "Lawd, Jesus, please, suh,

have mussy on me

A light touch fell on Ut's throat; then another and another, inch by inch. He held his breath to be certain it was there; then a long cold shudder shook him. Praying would do no good now. His time had come. A measuring-worm was marking the size of his neck; it had already crawled up his back and measured his length for its master, Death. The gallows would hang him, the earth would take his body, and his lost soul would fly on and on until Satan caught it and put it in Hell.

He had stripped himself bare. He had nothing left but a rope-a shroud, and a new cold grave.

I

WONDER what a robin calls a thrush. Does it recognize its relationship? If it does, American though it be, it likely would use the old English "coz," not cousin. A robin is not given to unnecessary speech; it is only on occasion that it has much to say. It saves its voice for the mornings and evenings. And how cultured is that voice, never vulgar nor profane, not even when excited. How different is the blackbird, the grackle, especially when there are a number together. Did any one ever hear such billingsgate! And the sparrow too is pretty bad-but then of course the sparrow is brought up on the streets, so it can be forgiven. I would not be surprised if now, with the advent of the automobile and the sparrow's retirement to the farm, its speech might be radically altered. It may lose that shrillness so necessary if it is to be heard above the city noises, and become softer and milder.

What becomes of the spots on a fledgling robin? One day you see them, and the next time you see them, as an Irishman might say, they are gone. What a source of anxiety they must be to the parents-especially to the father. Here, apparently, is a brood of young thrush. That these spotted children will later prove to be regular robins can hardly be ex

pected with any confidence. And where do the spots come from, and why do they go? You can get rid of freckles. All you have to do is to wash your face in running water and repeat the proper words, and the freckles will pass to the nearest swallow. But why to a swallow? What does the swallow do with. them? It does not keep them. Does it, in turn, pass them on, and has possibly the mother robin learned this same useful spell? Does she simply have to wait until she can get her child to the water?

But what I started to say was, I wish I knew what the birds call each other, or even more, what they call themselves. The textbooks tell you nothing. They do not know; and the worst of it is, not wishing to acknowledge this ignorance, they make up names. Hylocichla mustelina-that is what the book says is the name of this thrush down there by the edge of the woods. It is absurd. The name does not even suggest a thrush. Adam had more sense. Only once did he slip up and that was with the catbird. It may have been in the twilight, at the end of a long, hard day, and Adam may not have been able to see very clearly; moreover, he may just have heard the embarrassed candidate for baptism give its pecu

liar cat-like mate call. "What's that?" he would have asked Eve. "It's a bird," she would have answered. "Oh well, call it a catbird." It was a grievous error; this beautiful, gray, improvising songster has suffered in consequence from that day to this. However, the pseudo-ornithologists have no method at all, not even imagination just pedantry and egoism. Old Tom Paine used to say that if you want to know what men think about God, then study theology; but if you want to know God, then study his works. So, I say, if you want to know what men think about birdsor at least what some men thinkthen study the textbooks; but if you want to know birds, then study birds, get acquainted with them, live with them. Hylocichla mustelina! As I repeat the name I hear first a thrum of ukuleles, and then when I reach its second part there comes a great Roman shout, "A Noi!" and I see a forest of uplifted arms.

But it is not only the birds' names I am interested in it is their language as well. And here I have made more progress. At least, I can say, as most of us do when we are asked if we know French, "Oh, I understand it pretty well, but I cannot speak it." So too with the birds. I understand them indeed, but I cannot talk back. I am a perfect duffer in conversation with them; I cannot get their accent. I whistle to them, try to imitate them, and they listen respectfully for a while, and then give it up. The catbird especially tries to understand, and he will, too, always answer; but he does it in a way as though he were saying, "Sorry! I really cannot make you out—but now just listen to me!"

In fact, though I speak of success, I have so far acquired hardly half a dozen of their words, and even one of these I take no satisfaction in because I suspect that it may be not bird language at all, but just English. The catbird calling me to drive away a cat does so with a distinctly uttered, "Kt! Kt!" But is this not simply in recognition of my own linguistic limitations? I fear so, and so, I say, my understanding here gives me no pride of accomplishment. However, through eavesdropping, I have learned some of their small talk, especially, I am ashamed to say, of their lovemaking and quarreling. Then there is that little "phut-phut," a very tiny, almost whispered "phut-phut,' used by the wrens in putting their youngsters to sleep. Mother wren, having decided to call it a day, retires to a limb near by for rest and relaxation. But she keeps her eye on her house. Out come the stretched necks of the children, calling for More! Then a few rapid words from the mother and in they go again. What she says is, of course, "Pull in your heads and go to sleep," but I cannot give it all in her vernacular— only this little "phut-phut."

They say that birds do not use consonants in their language—what a job then it would be to write bird language in Hebrew-but this statement is true only of their songs, not of their intimate conversation. And I have a feeling that we might learn something of them there. The fact is, you know, they use no words at all when singing, just a sort of openthroated, unspellable "la-la-la," and that seems to me a very good way.

But speaking of open throats, what a task is this infant-feeding! The