"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.