Arthur. Uncle Daniel calls him the fire hangbird.
Frederic. That’s because his nest hangs down from the bough like a bag.
Caroline. Don’t you know what that’s for? Where they first came from, ’way down in the torrid zone, they build their nests that way, so the monkeys and serpents can’t get their eggs.
Arthur. I’ve got a hangbird’s egg.
Edith. Do they have red eggs? (Boys smile.)
Fred. No: black-and-white. Father calls him the golden-robin.
Caroline. I’ll tell you what I’d be,—a mocking-bird. And I’ll tell you why: because a mocking-bird can sing every tune he hears. It does vex me so when I hear a pretty tune, and can’t sing it! Sometimes I remember one line, and then I can’t rest till I get the whole. Mother says I ought to have been born a mocking-bird.
Fred. Of course, Caroline would want to carol.
(Groans and “O Fred!” by the crowd.)
Caroline. Mother says he can whistle to the dog, and chirp like a chicken, or scream like a hawk, and can imitate any kind of a sound,—filing, or planing, or any thing.