wings the way they are now. But because after he is gone you will feel bad and mope around for a few days, I thought I would tell you now that when spring comes he will leave you, notwithstanding the bond of friendship, so if you want him kept here (which I hope you don’t) you had better cut the feathers on one wing.”
I didn’t want to mutilate his feathers so I left them on. A few weeks later coming from one of those important trips downtown, they told me at the house that my pet had gone. I said, “I guess not.” I didn’t want to let on that I was alarmed, but when they were not looking I made some big strides for the barnyard, and it was actually as still as death. I whistled but no sound, save an echo, came in return.
I noticed the leaves hung silent on our trees, though the neighbors’ trees were in action. I went back of the barn and called, but the call was wasted on a few old hens that “didn’t belong.” I tried to ginger up some life into the landscape by throwing a few old potatoes at things, but the brakes were set in general on everything and I went into the house and found all the family sitting: in front of an
