de my father
angry whenever he looked at them.

When I moulted for the first time, he watched me closely. While the
feathers were falling out and while I was naked, he was kind; but my new
feathers drove him wild with anger. I did not wonder. I was no longer
even gray; I had become snow white. I was a white blackbird! Did such a
thing ever happen in a blackbird family before?

It made me very sad to see my father so vexed over me. But it is hard to
stay sad forever, and one sunshiny spring day I opened my bill and began
to sing. At the first note my father flew up into the air like a
sky-rocket.

"What do I hear?" he cried. "Is that the way a blackbird whistles? Do I
whistle that way?"

"I whistle the best I can," I replied.

"That is not the way we whistle in my family," my father said. "We have
whistled for many, many years and know how to do it. It is not enough
for you to be white; you must make that horrible noise. The truth is you
are not a blackbird."

"I will leave home," I answered with a sob. "I will go far away where I
can pick up a living on earthworms and spiders."

"Do as you please," my father said. "You are not a blackbird."

II

I flew away early the next morning, and was lucky enough to find shelter
under an old gutter. It rained hard that night. I was just about to go
to bed, when a very wet bird came in and sat down beside me. His
feathers were grayish like mine, but he was much larger than myself.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I pass for a blackbird but I am white."

"I am the finest bird in the world," he said. "I am a carrier pigeon and
carry messages."

Then I saw that a traveling bag hung from his neck.

"Maybe I am a pigeon," I said, "since I am not a blackbird."

"No," he answered, "a runt like you could not be a pigeon."

The next morning the pigeon sprang from the gutter and flew away as fast
as the wind. As I was lonely, I followed him. He flew faster and faster,
but I kept up for a good while. At last my strength gave out and I fell
down into a meadow.

I was stunned by the fall. When I came to my senses, two birds stood
near by looking at me. One was a dainty little magpie; the other a
soft-eyed turtle dove. The magpie kindly offered me some berries she had
gathered.

"Who are you?" she asked.

[Illustration: The three birds meet]

"A blackbird or a pigeon," I said sadly. "I don't know which."

"Are you joking?" she cried. "You are