Act 4 — 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.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"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).