The house, though new to us when we purchased it in the spring, was almost three hundred years old, an uninhabited wreck we had chanced upon, bought, and spent the summer restoring. Happiness, fulfillment-if promised, they came only in the strangest measure. But that is nonsense, of course, for who could have thought it was a bird of ill omen, that little creature?ĭuring the first long summer, its cheerful notes seemed to stand both as a mark of fulfillment and as a promise of profound happiness, signifying the achievement of our hearts’ desire. Thinking back from this day to that one nine months ago, I now imagine the bird to have been sounding a warning. The Eternal Return, as they call it here. Now it is spring again, alas, and as predicted the yellow bird has returned. That was in late summer, before Harvest Home, before the bird left its nest for the winter. It was only the little yellow bird who lives in the locust tree outside our bedroom window, but I could have wrung his neck, for it was not yet six and I had a hangover.
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