CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRISON Like a long-caged bird Thou beat'st thy bars with broken wing And flutterest, feebly echoing The far-off music thou hast heard, -- _Arthur Eaton._ This was my last day of liberty for many, many months.

The very next evening I was stunned by a stone thrown by a small boy who accompanied a hunter.

Picking me up he ran toward his father, who was coming back from the neighboring swamp with his loaded gamebag.
"This bird isn't dead," said the boy, holding me up to view, "and I'm going to put it in a cage and train it to talk." "Crows are the kind that talk.

That's no crow nor no starling neither," answered the man.

"Better give it to me to kill.