Suppose you are a bluebird in Upstate New York. (This is quite a distinction, for it makes you the beloved state bird!) And suppose it is 1823, on September 22nd at about midmorning.
There are plenty members of your merry and colorful species around just now. They are eating from the harvested or soon-to-be-harvested fields, Or, they are flitting and feeding and softly warbling in the brushy forest edges.
But it happens that you are en route from the Smith family farm to a certain large hill about three and a half miles south and slightly east. You see a boy of seventeen walking below you to the same destination.
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