Then his eye sought the crouching boy, and he again
prayed that he would not be disappointed; with his prayer came the answer.
A sweep of wings overhead, a brown flash through the tamaracks, and then a
burst of slow, sweet notes, then silence.
James Minturn leaned forward, his eyes on his son, his precious little
lad. How the big strong man hoped, until it became the very essence of
prayer, that he would be granted the pride and pleasure, the triumph, of
success; for his ears told him that to reproduce the notes he had just
heard would undoubtedly be the crowning performance of bird music; surely
there could be no other songster gifted like that! The bird made a short
flight and sang again. Across the swamp came a repetition of his notes
from another of his kind, so the brown streak moved in that direction. At
its next pause its voice arose again, sweeter for the mellowing distance,
and then another bird, not so far away, answered. The bird replied and
came winging in sight, this time peering, uttering a short note, unlike
its song; and not until it came searching where he could see it
distinctly, did James Minturn awake to the realization that the last notes
had been Malcolm's.
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