As I studied, unable to concentrate, I heard her talking to herself. I thought that perhaps it was the approach of sleep that made her mutterings more and more incoherent. Several times I looked in, but she was wide awake, still multiplying the blossoms of the honeysuckle. At first she talked of the mountains and the fir trees, inquired of herself if she thought the snow would still be on the ground, said, “Yes, it will be a good thing for her. Shura, even as a child, didn’t like the smell of fish. She was real unusual about it, Mrs. Henderson.” She proceeded then to her work. “It’s not as easy as rolling off a log to do a sandpiper, Sonie, darling. Naturally it looks easy as pie to somebody that don’t know the first thing about needlework, but all the same I’m willing to make them. Do you want two on each side of the collar or just one? No, the sandpiper is not my favorite bird. Best I like peacocks, next best parrots, third best bluebird. Sandpiper is way down the list, maybe last.”

Then she ceased to make sentences and though she did not raise her voice, it became intense as she uttered single nouns or strung together a group of unrelated verbs: “Run and swim and holler.” After a moment, “Mrs. Purple Grackle?” she inquired. “No, Mr. Humming-bird. Mister? Or Doctor Humming-bird?”

I paid little attention to her. Gradually I forgot about the doctor’s visit and I read hard at Ode on Intimations of Immortality, my next day’s assignment. My interpretation of the poem, nevertheless, was influenced by the childish prattle that issued from the bedroom and a part of my mind (the same shallow part that put into my mouth most preposterous errors when I was translating Latin at sight, making me read “In the midst of its boughs and yearly arms spread the opaque elm tree, huge, where sat Sleep vulgarly,” for “In medio ramos annosaque brachia pandit Ulmus opaca, ingens, quam sedem Somnia vulgo”), obeying the advice of my English teacher to bring literature into my life and vice versa, suggested to me that my mother was returning to her childhood and if her mood lasted, she might go even further and briefly visit her heavenly home.

She talked continuously, then sang a little, then imitated a drunk, “They’re flying all around thish room. Get thosh boids out of thish room.” Something clattered to the floor. “Sonie!” she screamed. “Come quick!” I ran into the bedroom. She had flung off the bedding and was sitting up straight, her hands over her face.

“Mamma!” I scolded her. “Put the covers over you. You’ll catch cold again.”

“There were birds in here, Sonie!”