Watching some children trying to catch butterflies one August afternoon, I was reminded of an incident in my own childhood. When I was a boy of twelve in South Carolina, something ha ened to me that made me never put any wild creature (living thing) in a cage(Áý×Ó).ª¥

We lived on the edge of a forest, and every evening at dusk the mockingbirds would come and rest in the trees and sing. There i ¡¯t a musical i trument made by man that can produce a more beautiful sound than the song of the mockingbird.

I decided that I would catch a young bird and keep it in a cage and in that way, I would have my own private musician.

I finally succeeded in catching one and put it in a cage. At first, being scared, the bird fluttered(ÆËÌÚ) about the cage, but finally it settled down in its new home. I felt very pleased with myself and looked forward to some beautiful singing from my little musician.

On the second day of the bird¡¯s captivity, my new pet¡¯s mother flew to the cage with food in her mouth. The baby bird ate everything she brought to it. I was pleased to see this. Certainly the mother knew better than I how to feed her baby.

The following morning when I went to see how my captive (caged) bird was doing, I discovered it on the floor of the cage, dead. I was terribly surprised! What had ha ened! I had taken extremely care of my little bird, or so I thought.

Arthur Wayne, the famous ornithologist, who ha ened to be visiting my father at the time, hearing me crying over the death of my bird, explained what had ha ened. ¡°A mother mockingbird, finding her young in a cage, will sometimes bring it poison berries(¶¾Ý®). She thinks it better for her young to die than to live in captivity.¡±ª¥