—­HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

THE WHITE BLACKBIRD

I

I was born a blackbird in a bushy thicket near a meadow.  My father took good care of his family and would peck about all day for insects.  These he brought home to my mother, holding them by the tail so as not to mash them.  He had a sweet voice, too, and every evening sang beautiful songs.

I should have been happy, but I was not.  I ate little and was weak; and from the first, I was different from my brothers and sisters.  They had glossy, black feathers, while mine were dirty gray.  These made my father angry whenever he looked at them.

When I moulted for the first time, he watched me closely.  While the feathers were falling out and while I was naked, he was kind; but my new feathers drove him wild with anger.  I did not wonder.  I was no longer even gray; I had become snow white.  I was a white blackbird!  Did such a thing ever happen in a blackbird family before?

It made me very sad to see my father so vexed over me.  But it is hard to stay sad forever, and one sunshiny spring day I opened my bill and began to sing.  At the first note my father flew up into the air like a sky-rocket.

“What do I hear?” he cried.  “Is that the way a blackbird whistles?  Do I whistle that way?”

“I whistle the best I can,” I replied.

“That is not the way we whistle in my family,” my father said.  “We have whistled for many, many years and know how to do it.  It is not enough for you to be white; you must make that horrible noise.  The truth is you are not a blackbird.”

“I will leave home,” I answered with a sob.  “I will go far away where I can pick up a living on earthworms and spiders.”

“Do as you please,” my father said.  “You are not a blackbird.”

II

I flew away early the next morning, and was lucky enough to find shelter under an old gutter.  It rained hard that night.  I was just about to go to bed, when a very wet bird came in and sat down beside me.  His feathers were grayish like mine, but he was much larger than myself.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.  “I pass for a blackbird but I am white.”

“I am the finest bird in the world,” he said.  “I am a carrier pigeon and carry messages.”

Then I saw that a traveling bag hung from his neck.

“Maybe I am a pigeon,” I said, “since I am not a blackbird.”

“No,” he answered, “a runt like you could not be a pigeon.”

The next morning the pigeon sprang from the gutter and flew away as fast as the wind.  As I was lonely, I followed him.  He flew faster and faster, but I kept up for a good while.  At last my strength gave out and I fell down into a meadow.

I was stunned by the fall.  When I came to my senses, two birds stood near by looking at me.  One was a dainty little magpie; the other a soft-eyed turtle dove.  The magpie kindly offered me some berries she had gathered.