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Young James Pruitt was an ordinary boy; he grew up in an ordinary town. But set a spell, and I’ll tell a tale of how some not-so-ordinary things went down. See, James was a good boy; he did his chores, he went to church, and he walked to school. Jacksons’ Gap was a sleepy little town; times were hard, and they’d closed the pool. But James didn’t care; he’d hurry home each day, kiss his momma, grab a snack, and tend to the hogs. And when he got finished, it was off to Manoy Creek, happy as a lark there, playing with the frogs. The toads and the turtles and the lizards were his friends, except the big snappers, ‘cuz they’ll bite your hand, you know. And he gave a wide berth to Old Man Moccasin, but he never hurt a thing, and he always let them go. Now some folks think I’m looney tunes and talking like a crazy fool, but I’m telling you that creek perked up when James arrived each day from school. You know how things get mighty quiet when folk start crashing through the woods. The animals all go to ground, But with James, they somehow understood. See, he’d start talking in a soothing voice, and sometimes share a crust of bread. The turtles ate right from his hand; you’d swear the frogs knew what he said. Now some say that imagining is how the devil gets his hold. This much is true: a time or two, his daydreams caught the teacher’s scold. It’s hard to learn geography when your whole life is Jacksons’ Gap and Manoy Creek is calling you away from countries on a map. “What is the capital of France?” James heard, from somewhere deep within a fog. “Ribbet,” escaped out of his mouth, on his notebook margins, sketching frogs. The other kids all laughed out loud, and startled, James fell off his chair. So he stayed late to clean the boards; ‘twas after five when he left there. He lit out like a scalded dog; he hurried quickly, on the double - way past time to feed the hogs and more than likely in big trouble… But the way from school went past the creek, and as they say, boys will be boys. From somewhere down by the willow tree, he heard the strangest, oddest noise. A cry for help is what he heard, a small high voice as clear as day. Again, he thought he heard a cry; James dropped his books and rushed that way. Beneath the willow, on the ground, there flopped a baby mockingbird, and Old Man Moccasin, mere feet away. James grabbed a stick, not the least bit deterred. The old man hissed and coiled to strike; James stood his ground, stayed in between, but though he waved the stick at him, Old Man kept coming, and he was mean! At last, James cracked him on the head; that stopped the old man in his tracks. He shook himself and slithered off; James saved the bird from his attacks. Well, James was shaking pretty hard, as was the little mockingbird. But then, I swear, what happened next is frankly going to sound absurd. A momma bird flew from the tree and landed right on James’ arm. He was afraid she would attack; he thought she meant to do him harm. O, thank you, thank you, young James Pruitt! I cried for help, and you came to it. You scared that snake, I could not do it, and so I name you Jay-Bird Pruitt. The crazy thing, this bird was talking! He heard her clearly, no shrieks or squawking. Before today, he never could but somehow, now, he understood. The mockingbirds shared their secret tongue and spread the word of what he’d done. His brave heroics spread like a flame; all Manoy Creek learned Jay-Bird’s name.

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