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Updated: May 1, 2025
Thomas displayed a second dish Bermuda potatoes the size of her own small fist. "Who knows?" said he. "It might be a robin, it might be a plover, it might be a quail." "It might be a a talking-bird," said Gwendolyn. She poked the bird with a fork. "Not likely," declared Thomas. Gwendolyn turned away. "Ain't it to your likin'?" asked Thomas, surprised.
Because, too, I have just been reading your spirit and see that it is still a white spirit, and that you will not whisper it to a 'talking-bird." Now I leant forward and looked at him. "What is the end at which you aim, O Zikali?" I asked. "You are not one who beats the air with a stick; on whom do you wish the stick to fall at last?" "On whom?" he answered in a new voice, a low, hissing voice.
I even learned entire passages by rote like a trained talking-bird, which was easier to me, from having previously committed to memory passages from the Bible which are generally unintelligible to a child, and accustomed myself to reciting them in the tone of the Protestant preachers.
Well, perhaps I will one day." "I dare say," I answered. "Chaka and Dingaan and Umhlangana and the others were not nice people. But another question. Why do you tell me all this, O Zikali, seeing that were I but to repeat it to a talking-bird you would be smelt out and a single moon would not die before you do?" "Oh!
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