omb against him, began to come forth like a glow-worm and wink its lamp
athwart the dark.

"She must come to Sunday-school," he thought, "if she stays in Princess
Anne. We will polish her."

The mocking-bird, not being satisfied with any lull in the conversation,
"pearted up," as he saw Vesta withdraw, and cried,

"'Sband! 'Sband! Meee--shack! Mee-ee-ee-shack! See me! see me! Gents!
gents! gents! genten! Sweet! sweetie! sweetie! Hoo! hoo! See! see!
Vesty, she! Ha! ha!"

He flew in the air over his stirring master, as if doubting that all was
well since the strange lady, who had been so quiet all the morning, was
gone.

"That bird almost speaks," said William Tilghman; "I have spent many an
hour teaching them, but never could make one talk like that."

"Maybe you had too much to teach to it," Rhoda Holland said; "it ain't
often they can speak, and they mustn't have much company to learn well.
Uncle Meshach haint had no company but that bird for years. I reckon
the bird got mad and lonesome, and jest hooted words at him."

"What is it saying now?" Tilghman asked. "See! it is almost convulsive
in its attempts to say something."

The gray bird, as impressive as a poor poet, seemed nearly in a state of
epilepsy to bring up some burden of oppressive sound, and, as they
watched it, almost tipsy with the intoxicant of speech, fluttering,
driving, and striking in the air, it suddenly brought out a note liquid
as gurgling snow from a bird-cote spout:

"L-l-lo-love! love! love! Ha! ha! L-l-love!"

"Well done, old bachelor!" Judge Custis remarked, in spite of his fagged
face, for good resolution and yesterday's unbracing had left him
somewhat limp and haggard still. "He brings out 'love' as if he had made
a vow against it, but the confession had to come. Many a monk would sing
the same if instinct could find a daring word in his chorals. These
mockers of Maryland were celebrated in the British magazines a hundred
years ago, and I recall some lines about them."

He then recited:

"'His breast whose plumes a cheerful white display,
His quivering wings are dressed in sober gray,
Sure all the Muses this their bird inspire,
And he alone is equal to a choir.
Oh, sweet musician! thou dost far excel
The soothing song of pleasing Philomel:
Sweet is her song, but in few notes confined,
But thine, thou mimic of the feathery kind!
Runs thro' all notes: thou only know'st them all,
At once the copy and th' o