“Who are you?” she asked.

[Illustration:  The three birds meet]

“A blackbird or a pigeon,” I said sadly.  “I don’t know which.”

“Are you joking?” she cried.  “You are a magpie.”

“But magpies are not white,” I said.

“Russian magpies are,” she answered; “perhaps you belong to that family.”

My joy was great for a moment at finding out what I was.  Still I was not sure that I was a magpie and thought I might settle the matter by singing.  I burst into song and warbled and whistled, and whistled and warbled.

The magpie looked at me in surprise.  Then her face grew sad and she backed off from me.  At last she flew away without another word.  Whatever I might be, I was not a magpie—­not even a Russian magpie.

I made up my mind not to rest until I found out what bird I was.  So I flew off to a place where birds of all kinds met to talk and enjoy themselves.  There were robins and sparrows and crows and wrens and martins and every sort of bird.  But I was not like any of them and whenever I began to sing, they all laughed.

“You are not one of us,” they said; “you are a white blackbird.  That is what you are.”

III

I had now seen all the birds, but none of them were as fine as the blackbirds.  I did not want to be like any of these birds; I longed to be a blackbird, a real blackbird.  That was not possible.  So I made up my mind to be content with my lot, as I had the heart of a blackbird even if I were not black.

A great flock of blackbirds lived on the edge of a cornfield.  I went to them and asked them to let me be their helper.

“I am only a white blackbird,” I said, “but I have the heart of a true blackbird.”

They let me stay.  I waited on them early and late, bringing straw to make nests and tender little worms for the baby blackbirds.  The old birds were kind to me, and I began to be happy.

Hard work did me good.  I soon grew strong, and when the crows tried to drive us away, I led the blackbirds to victory.  My sight was keen, and I was the first to find out that the scarecrow was not a man.  I caught more worms, too, than any of the blackbirds.

By and by a strange thing happened.  I saw one day that my white feathers were speckled with brown dots.  They grew larger and larger until the dots covered me all over; I was no longer white but brown.  And now, little by little, my brown coat turned darker and darker until one morning it was black—­a rich, glossy black!  I was a blackbird at last.

Then the other blackbirds hopped around me with joy, crying, “He is the largest and bravest of the blackbirds.  Let him be king!  Long live the king of the blackbirds!”

—­ALFRED DE MUSSET (Adapted).

THE BROWN THRUSH