Mockingbirds are as hard to kill as white whales and you can see the comparisons coming, just as surely as Esmaree sees other things--pictures in her mind which come true. Like the time when she was ten and she saw Mr. Finley, dead, in a grey casket with silver handles. It and he came to pass. But she's no Bernadette, thank le bon Dieu, just a nice youngster living back in a small southern town in the Depression. Of course when there's a town picnic which one of her visions loads with catastrophe and she warns the Sheriff, the worst doesn't happen until a few days later when her father gets sick--typhoid--and dies. Of course there are other things going on which she doesn't know about yet--family troubles, unloving wives, too loving (elsewhere) husbands. But Esmaree's final foreboding, a shooting, is fulfilled, and incriminates a young black boy--this during the era when ""a nigger was a nigger"" and didn't really have a chance. But then there's Esmaree. . . . Right nice, right real, and the perfect summer cooler, hear.