That bird's a Mocker. It must be in there
somewhere. Oh, don't go in, Miss Vessy; something will catch you, dear
Missy, sho'."
But Vesta was already gone, following the piercing sound of the native
bird, that seemed to be in the loft.
She saw a little counter of pine, and a pine desk built into it, and
bundles of skins, some cord-wood, a pile of lumber and boxes, a few
barrels of oil or spirits, and dust and cobwebs thick on everything; and
a little way in from the door the light and darkness made weird effects
upon each other, increasing the apparent distances, and changing the
forms; and the sun, now risen, made turning cylinders of gold-dust at
certain knot-holes in the eastern gable, across whose film she saw two
lean mice stand upon the floor unalarmed, and tamely watch her come.
The screaming of the bird was conveyed through the thin floor from above
with loud distinctness, and every note of singing things seemed to be
imitated by it, from the hawk's gloating cry to the swallow's twittering
alarm, with the most rapid versatility, and even hurry, as if the
creature was trying over every bird language, with the hope of finding
one mankind could understand. It was idle to expect to be heard amid
such clamor, and Vesta, having pounded on the floor a few times, made
her way to a sort of cupboard, that might turn out to be a stairway,
and, sure enough, a door opened on its dark side, and light from above
flickered down.
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