"Billy Winters always said it was a wildcat, and was scarder'n a rabbit. Hello! There he goes again! Say! ain't he a little corker, though? Did you ever hear him before?" "Yes." "Any other place than here?" "Yes." "Where?" "Far away." "Where you uster live 'fore you came here?" "Yes." "Were there Canada birds an' blue jays there, too?" "Yes." "Any other kinds?" "Yes." "What were they?" The man's face betokened a deep pain and reluctance. He sat for a moment, staring ahead, and then answered in a hushed tone, "There was one they called the hermit thrush." "The hermit thrush," repeated Tim. "I've never sawn him. What does he say?" "He says," began the man dreamily, "he says--'Oh'----" He stopped, as though afraid of what he had done. "I--I forget what he said," he added confusedly. "Do you?" The boy's tone was disappointed. "Mebby if you think hard you'll remember it," he added encouragingly. "What color was it?" "Brown." "Did it sing like a robin?" "No." "Can't you remember one little, teenty speck of it?" incredulously. "No." "Aw, think hard. That's what the Dook tells me in school, and then it comes to me. Ole Mother Cummins uster lambaste me with a stick when I forgot things, but she jist walloped it all out of me. The Dook gives me a whackin' sometimes, too, but she can't lick for sour apples 'longside o' ole Mother Cummins. What did ye say was the bird's name?" "The hermit thrush." "Doesn't it ever sing here?" "I don't think so, I've never heard it." "If you could mind what it sings like I could listen for it." The remark was broadly insinuating, but elicited no response. "Where did you hear it?" "Far away from here." "In another country?" "I guess so--yes." "In Nova Scotia?" The man turned sharply. "What made you say that?" he cried. "I--we came from there," whispered the boy; "but you won't tell, will you?" "No." "Only Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer knows. Our father he was a bad man, so we don't tell. The kids don't mind him, but I do. He wasn't bad to us, but he done somethin' awful, an' then he ran away, an' our mother died, an' he sent us miles an' miles away to a city, an' we lived with old Mother Cummins. But I mind the ocean--it smelt like--ok, it smelt awful good! Did you ever smell the ocean?" The man was supporting his head on his hand; his face was turned away. "Oh, say! it's bully! It's somethin' like the smell o' the crick, jist below the falls, on a hot day--only--only different. That's why I play hookey so often down in the holler, 'cause it smells like the ocean." Tim made his statement proudly. It was a wonderful privilege to boast of how bad you were, and be sure you would be unreproved.