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Updated: June 9, 2025
He waved greeting, but his gaze only for that one recognizing instant left the salmon that were landing flop, flop on the Blackbird's deck out of a troller's fish well. He made out a slip, handed the troller some currency. There was a brief exchange of words between them. The man nodded, pushed off his boat. Instantly another edged into the vacant place.
Blackbird to see him amuse himself in that fashion, because while he was digging Grandfather Mole lost his chance at a good many angleworms. They found their way quickly down Mr. Blackbird's throat. And it was not long before he was in the best of spirits. Day after day while the spring ploughing went on, the strange pair followed the plough together.
He is much bigger than the blackbird; and he lacks the blackbird's trim and slender and beautiful build and shapely beak; and of course his sober garb of gray and rusty black is a poor and humble thing compared with the splendid lustre of the blackbird's metallic sables and shifting and flashing bronze glories.
They are very harmless creatures, living chiefly on roots and bitter herbs: perhaps they eat insects as well. They lie buried in the sand during the long winters, in a torpid state: they lay a number of eggs, about the size of a blackbird's, the shell of which is tough and soft, like a snake's egg.
He sat there in the top of the tall butternut tree, and pretended that he was Mister Blackbird, and he sang Mister Blackbird's song all the way through. Then he said "Meow!" and then he sang a song very much like Robert Robin's "Rain" song, then he said "Meow!" again, and laughed.
The thirteen days which now followed were very important ones; for, during that time, our Blackbird's patient young wife sat almost uninterruptedly upon her nest. She stole away for a few moments to the neighbouring hedgerows for breakfast or dinner; but she was never happy till she was back again to her precious charge. It was at this time that the Blackbird poured forth his very best music.
And an old wanderer walking with a stick came by and the blackbird flew away, and the poet told the old man the blackbird's wonderful story. "That song new?" said the wanderer. "Not a bit of it. God made it years ago. All the blackbirds used to sing it when I was young. It was new then." One wandering nigh Parnassus chasing hares heard the high Muses. "Take us a message to the Golden Town."
They came in skiffs and dinghys, and when they were all about his stern and some perched in sea boots along the Blackbird's low bulwarks, MacRae said what he had to say. "Gower has come alive. My market for fish bought in Gower's territory is closed, so far as Crow Harbor is concerned. If I can't sell salmon I can't buy them from you. How much do you think Folly Bay will pay for your fish?"
Wogan had not caught the sound at first above the clatter of the wheels, and even now that he listened it came intermittently to his ears. He heard enough, however, to know and to rejoice that there was no melancholy in the music. The song had the clear bright thrill of the blackbird's note in June. Wogan listened, entranced.
"Not the least bit in the world. To the best of my knowledge, Lady Mabel I beg her pardon Lady Mallow is now on her way the fishing-grounds of Connemara with her husband." "Rorie!" What a glad happy cry that was! It was like a gush of sudden music from a young blackbird's throat on a sunny spring morning. The crimson dye had faded from Violet's cheeks a minute ago and left her deadly pale.
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