"Does I know de mockin'bird, I reck'n so--'bout de fust t'ing I did know, 'cept how ter suck sugar-cane. Sugar-cane am good eatin' long in de 'arly fall, but de Mocker ain't doin' much singin' dese yer times, least not 'less he's in a cage in a good sunshiny place. He am a kind ob a peart gray bird, darker in some places, lighter in oders, and clean as a parson. But come 'long spring and time for droppin' de cottin seed, de Mocker he know mighty well what's a-doin'. 'Long in March he comes inter de bushes and orange scrub round de field a-makin' a fuss and tellin' folks to git along to work, or dere won't be no cottin, and he keep it straight up all de day long till cottin's out o' bloom. All de day long kind o' chatterin' and hurryin' de niggers up when dere a-droppin' de seed in de line, and scoldin' and hurryin' all de day long, when dere a-hoein' down de weeds. Den when it come night, de she-bird keep close onter de nest, and de he-bird go in de scrub or de redwoods or de gin'gos, nigh de clarin', maybe right on de cabin roof, and he say to hisself--'Now dem niggers done dere work, I'll gib 'em a tune ter courage 'em like.' Den he jes' let hisself onter his singin'. Sometime he sing brave and bold, like he say big words like missis and de folks dat lib in de big house. Den he whisper soft an' low widout any words, jes' like a mammy was a-singin' to her baby. Den agin he sing kin' o' long and soft and wheedlesome, like Sambo when he come a-courtin' o' me. Sho, now! come to t'ink o' Sambo, he didn't nebber like Mockers, a'ter one time he 'spicioned a Mocker tole tales on him. Massa Branscome--he were a mighty fine man and your gran'dad, Miss Olive--he say he wouldn't have no puss'n to rob de nests o' Mockers, not anywheres on his 'states. Dey did eat a pile o' fruit, but dat was nuffin'. Fus' place he jes' loved ter hear 'em sing, an' den he 'lowed dat dey was powerful fond o' cottin worms, what was mighty bad some years. "Now lots o' coon darkies dey uster steal de youn' Mockers jes' afore dey lef' de nest and sell 'em to white trash dat ud tote 'em down the ribber an' sell 'em agin in N'Orleans, to be fetched off in ships. And I'se hear tell dat dere ain't any sech birds in oder countries, and dat de kings and queens jes' gib dere gold crowns offen dere heads t' have a cage o' Mockers. "Dem coons nebber got no gold crowns, howsumever. What dey got was mos'ly a quarter foh free he-birds. Now Sambo he was a-courtin' an' wanted a banjo powerful bad, an' he didn't want no common truck, so he 'lowed to get one up from N'Orleans. So he 'greed to pay for it in Mockers, an' he to'ht he know'd where he'd get 'em foh sure. Mockers don' nes' in de woods and wild places, dey allus keeps roun' de plantations near where folks libs.