Not so this spring. He swears he will never come back. As Cervantes said, "Don't look for any birds this year in last year's nest." He's nobody's bird in the hand. He takes his freedom seriously, and doesn't mind getting a little drunk. "One swallow doesn't make a Spring," he remarked last night in Cronin's. "I'm so stoned I feel like two birds."
But while Thresky cavorts, his former captors, realizing at last that the end has come, have become desperate. They catch at straws. They believe I have abducted the sacred thing, and call me at all hours of the night to tell me how calmly they are taking it. Their star cartoonist, justifiably jealous, ambushed me recently and sprained my leg.
But to quote the Raven, "Nevermore." Only three ibi have ever been seen in New England, and this particular rara avis is now, as the Poonies say, rara than eva. He may, by the time you read this, actually have become extinct!