Bobby Coon had spent the largest part of the forenoon sitting at the foot of the tall dead tree on which Ol' Mistah Buzzard likes to roost. All the time Ol' Mistah Buzzard had been sailing 'round and 'round in circles way up in the blue, blue sky, sometimes so high that to Bobby he looked like just a tiny speck. Bobby had watched him until his own neck ached. Mistah Buzzard hardly ever moved his wings. He just sailed and sailed and sailed up and down and 'round and 'round, just as if it was no work at all but pure fun, as indeed it was.  
Bobby Coon had waited so long that it was almost more than he could do to be patient any longer, but if you really want a thing, it is worth waiting for, and so Bobby gave a great sigh and tried to make himself more comfortable. At last Mistah Buzzard came sailing down straight for the tall dead tree. With two or three flaps of his great wings he settled down on his favorite perch and looked down at Bobby Coon.
 
"Good mo'ning, Brer Coon," said Ol' Mistah Buzzard.
 
"Good morning, Mistah Buzzard; I hope you are feeling very well this morning," replied Bobby Coon as politely as he knew how.
 
"Fair to middling well," said Ol' Mistah Buzzard, with a twinkle in his eyes. "What can Ah do fo' yo'all?"
 
"If you please, Mistah Buzzard, you can tell me if there is anybody way down South where you come from who can make his voice sound just like the voices of other people. Is there?" Bobby was using his very politest manner.
 
"Cert'nly! Cer............