My Papa, Papa

My Papa, PapaWhen I Was six, in 1934, Papa would take me up on the Florida Keys to shoot shore birds--golden plovers and yellowbills. They would fly in small flocks and make a whistling sound. Papa would sit in the mangroves and make a soft imitation of their call. The birds would circle curiously and Papa would fire with deadly accuracy. I was retriever, pulling the birds out of the water; and as the stack grew, Papa would whet my appetite by telling me (he called me "Mouse") how good...