The next morning, the village was alive with the story of the "Ghost of the Silver Market" that had chased away the robbers. Only the silk merchant knew the truth. He looked up at the eaves of his shop, where Manu sat bobbing his head and ruffling his feathers.
"Stop right there!" boomed the voice of the village elder, coming from the darkness above. myna bird
Over the years, Manu had become a master of mimicry. He could perfectly imitate the high-pitched whistle of the tea seller, the rhythmic clicking of the silk looms, and the deep, booming laugh of the village elder. The villagers loved him, often leaving small bits of fruit as payment for his "performances". The next morning, the village was alive with