The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

breakfast.”
    The startled bird took off and flew toward the live oaks bordering our lawn, where it landed on the ground. This surprised me. Then I thought about it. Of course, it wouldn’t be a passerine, or perching bird, not with webbed feet like that.
    â€œHarry, did you see that? What is it, do you think?”
    But Harry had gone inside.
    I made a quick check of my barometer before following him and noted that the pressure was down significantly. Was there something wrong with it? I flicked it with my fingernail but it held steady. Huh. Maybe you had to change the balloon from time to time to keep it fresh.
    I went inside, and right at that moment, the wind picked up and slammed the door behind me with a loud crash. It meant nothing to me at the time.
    Since it was a Saturday, I got my obligatory half hour of piano practice over with right after breakfast and then tracked down Granddaddy in the library. I tapped on the door, and he called out, “Enter if you must.” He sat at his desk reading Thallophyta of North America . I confess, fungi were not exactly my favorite subject, but as he always reminded me, all of life was intertwined and we could neglect no aspect of it. To do so indicated shallowness of intellect and shabby scholarship.
    â€œGranddaddy,” I said, “can I use the bird atlas?”
    â€œI believe the question is ‘ may I use the bird atlas?’ And the answer is, of course, you may. My books are your books.”
    I left him to his work and pulled the weighty Thompson’s Field Guide to the Birds from the shelf. I thumbed through it, briefly diverted by the stunning display of the peacock and the awkward form of the flamingo before coming to a section I’d never browsed before: Sea Birds of the Gulf of Mexico. For a girl who had never been to the seashore, this was interesting stuff.
    â€œGosh,” I said, poring over the pages.
    â€œCalpurnia, I know you are capable of expressing yourself without resorting to popular exclamations. The use of slang betrays a weak imagination and a lazy mind.”
    â€œYessir,” I murmured. But my mind was not attending to him. I stared at an illustration of the bird I’d seen on the lawn. “Golly.”
    â€œCalpurnia.”
    â€œHmm? Oh, sorry. Granddaddy, look at this bird. I saw one just like it this morning.”
    He got up and looked over my shoulder. “Are you sure?” He frowned.
    I opened my Notebook and showed him my sketch, saying, “It’s the same one, isn’t it?”
    He compared the two drawings, his gnarled forefinger moving back and forth between them. He muttered, “The silhouette is correct, as is the gorget, and the primary and secondaries. And you’re sure about this dark area here? Between the upper wing and the distal wingtip?”
    â€œYessir.”
    â€œAnd there was no white window here on the wing?”
    â€œNo, sir, not that I could see.”
    â€œThen it is a laughing gull, or Leucophaeus atricilla. Strange. A gull with a typical inland range of twenty-five miles, and yet here it is, two hundred miles from the coast.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and frowned at the ceiling, lost in thought. There was silence, except for the ticking of the mantel clock. I dared not interrupt his pondering. After a few minutes, he got up and peered at his own barometer on the wall. His expression was remote, and grave.
    I said, “Is there something wrong with your barometer? There’s something wrong with mine too.”
    â€œNo. There’s nothing wrong with the barometers. But we must warn them. I hope it’s not too late.”
    A thrill of fear shot through me. “Warn who? Too late for what?”
    He was deep in thought and did not answer. He put on his coat and hat, grabbed his walking stick, and headed for the door. What was going on? I trailed behind him, sick with anxiety. He walked briskly, casting