all the way home, and I’m not killing this crane if there’s anything else I can do.”
“There could be life on other planets.”
“Yeah.”
“But I guess there couldn’t be too.” Sammy shook his head. He said, “Well, anyway, I don’t think he’s all the way blind. He blinked his eye.”
“We’ll see.” His grandfather waited, watching the crane. Then he straightened and said, “Well, give me the corn.”
Sammy handed the corn to his grandfather, and his grandfather held it beneath the crane’s beak, shaking it in his hand so that the crane could hear. The crane stood without moving. “He don’t want to eat now. Corn was what he’d been after in that field, but he won’t take it now.”
“Keep trying,” Sammy suggested.
“Give me the water.” His grandfather lifted the bucket and sloshed the water around. He scratched his hand on the bottom of the bucket. The crane did not move, and Sammy’s grandfather put the crane’s head down into the water.
The crane drank. He lifted his head, swallowed, clapped his beak and then drank again.
“At least he’s drinking,” Sammy said. “He couldn’t be completely miserable if he’s drinking.” He looked at the crane, who had finished and was standing now with his head high, turned slightly toward them. Sammy felt the crane’s stubborn will and was touched by it. He said, “I know he’s going to be all right.” He stepped forward, “Don’t you think—”His foot landed on one of the geese and the goose fluttered up, squawking. “I’m sorry,” Sammy said absently, then to his grandfather, “Don’t you think so?”
His grandfather turned without speaking and started walking toward the house. Sammy felt his question had been pointedly ignored. “The first thing to do,” his grandfather said, “is to get some food in him—and in us too. I reckon you’re hungry, boy, aren’t you, not having any breakfast?”
Sammy felt a sudden stab of guilt and he turned slowly and walked behind his grandfather to the house. “Well, I’m not that hungry,” he said.
“I made some biscuits for your folks for breakfast. There might be one or two of them left.”
“I don’t feel much like having a biscuit.” This was the truth.
“Well, we’ll find something.”
They went into the kitchen and Sammy glanced first at the parrot in the corner, who was still there, quietly ruffling its feathers. He half expected the parrot to screech out his shame. The parrot would cry, “He already ate. He already ate.” Sammy could almost hear the sharp mocking words. He cleared his throat and said, “Does your parrot talk much?”
“He says one or two things.”
“Does he ever tell you things that have happened, anything like that?”
“No, he can say ‘Where’s Papa?’ and—”
“Where’s who?”
“Papa, that’s me.”
“Oh.”
“And he can say ‘Good-by,’ only he don’t know when to say it. Or else he just plain enjoys saying it at the wrong time. He won’t ever tell somebody good-by when they’re leaving. A thousand people could go out of this house and that parrot wouldn’t say good-by to a one of them.” He wiped his mustache in a gesture of disgust. “Folks say parrots don’t know what they’re saying, but that parrot does, because he just plain makes a point of saying good-by at the wrong time.”
He went over and stood by the parrot. “Good-by, Paulie, good-by. I’m not going anywhere, so you can say it. Good-by. Good-by.” He waited, then he gave up and crossed the kitchen with his slow heavy steps. “I used to have me a fine gray parrot that knew all the parts of a car.”
His grandfather paused to glance at the biscuit plate. He saw that the biscuits were gone and said, “Well, I’ll fix us some spaghetti.” He went into the pantry and the parrot said, “Good-by. Good-by.”
“He said it!” Sammy cried.
“Yeah, he said it. He knows I’m in the pantry.” He looked out at the parrot. “You don’t
“There could be life on other planets.”
“Yeah.”
“But I guess there couldn’t be too.” Sammy shook his head. He said, “Well, anyway, I don’t think he’s all the way blind. He blinked his eye.”
“We’ll see.” His grandfather waited, watching the crane. Then he straightened and said, “Well, give me the corn.”
Sammy handed the corn to his grandfather, and his grandfather held it beneath the crane’s beak, shaking it in his hand so that the crane could hear. The crane stood without moving. “He don’t want to eat now. Corn was what he’d been after in that field, but he won’t take it now.”
“Keep trying,” Sammy suggested.
“Give me the water.” His grandfather lifted the bucket and sloshed the water around. He scratched his hand on the bottom of the bucket. The crane did not move, and Sammy’s grandfather put the crane’s head down into the water.
The crane drank. He lifted his head, swallowed, clapped his beak and then drank again.
“At least he’s drinking,” Sammy said. “He couldn’t be completely miserable if he’s drinking.” He looked at the crane, who had finished and was standing now with his head high, turned slightly toward them. Sammy felt the crane’s stubborn will and was touched by it. He said, “I know he’s going to be all right.” He stepped forward, “Don’t you think—”His foot landed on one of the geese and the goose fluttered up, squawking. “I’m sorry,” Sammy said absently, then to his grandfather, “Don’t you think so?”
His grandfather turned without speaking and started walking toward the house. Sammy felt his question had been pointedly ignored. “The first thing to do,” his grandfather said, “is to get some food in him—and in us too. I reckon you’re hungry, boy, aren’t you, not having any breakfast?”
Sammy felt a sudden stab of guilt and he turned slowly and walked behind his grandfather to the house. “Well, I’m not that hungry,” he said.
“I made some biscuits for your folks for breakfast. There might be one or two of them left.”
“I don’t feel much like having a biscuit.” This was the truth.
“Well, we’ll find something.”
They went into the kitchen and Sammy glanced first at the parrot in the corner, who was still there, quietly ruffling its feathers. He half expected the parrot to screech out his shame. The parrot would cry, “He already ate. He already ate.” Sammy could almost hear the sharp mocking words. He cleared his throat and said, “Does your parrot talk much?”
“He says one or two things.”
“Does he ever tell you things that have happened, anything like that?”
“No, he can say ‘Where’s Papa?’ and—”
“Where’s who?”
“Papa, that’s me.”
“Oh.”
“And he can say ‘Good-by,’ only he don’t know when to say it. Or else he just plain enjoys saying it at the wrong time. He won’t ever tell somebody good-by when they’re leaving. A thousand people could go out of this house and that parrot wouldn’t say good-by to a one of them.” He wiped his mustache in a gesture of disgust. “Folks say parrots don’t know what they’re saying, but that parrot does, because he just plain makes a point of saying good-by at the wrong time.”
He went over and stood by the parrot. “Good-by, Paulie, good-by. I’m not going anywhere, so you can say it. Good-by. Good-by.” He waited, then he gave up and crossed the kitchen with his slow heavy steps. “I used to have me a fine gray parrot that knew all the parts of a car.”
His grandfather paused to glance at the biscuit plate. He saw that the biscuits were gone and said, “Well, I’ll fix us some spaghetti.” He went into the pantry and the parrot said, “Good-by. Good-by.”
“He said it!” Sammy cried.
“Yeah, he said it. He knows I’m in the pantry.” He looked out at the parrot. “You don’t
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