II
N the branches of a chinaberry tree outside the open window a mocking-bird was going through his repertoire, a repertoire of trills and gurgles and sudden flutings that started off with a dash and invariably ended, after a dozen notes, for all the world like the performance of a tenor who has forgotten his song. But, unlike the singer, he showed no embarrassment. Off he went again, throatily chanting of the rain that had brought him a bountiful supper, trilling of the charms and virtues of his mate, who, doubtless, was attending to her housewifely duties and awaiting her lord's return in some nearby tree. Gordon, getting leisurely into his dinner clothes, went to the window and watched him where, halfway along a slender branch, he stood, head up, pouring a cascade of music from his trim gray body.
"Go it, you little duffer," encouraged Gordon,
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