A WINGED CHUM 173 



them. They 're so everlastingly alive. Somehow, 

 a mass of dead feathers isn 't a bird, to me. That 's 

 only a dead bird. It's what a bird does and how 

 he does it that I want to know. They work so 

 hard and they play so hard that I like watching 

 'em." 



''Birds don't play," Bull interrupted. 



"Oh, yes, they do," the lad insisted. ''My 

 books talk a lot about the way that birds play. 

 Owls are as full of fun and frolic as monkeys, 

 Ravens do all sorts of mischievous pranks. Par- 

 rots will amuse themselves for hours on end. The 

 Nuthatches do gymnastic tricks for the fun of do- 

 ing them. Caracara Hawks turn somersaults. 

 Swallows play 'catch.' Woodpeckers are never 

 tired of 'hide and seek,' and any number of birds 

 dance, either in the air or on the ground, just to 

 enjoy themselves." 



The pot-hunter looked incredulous. 



"Then," continued Shan, stolidly, "I want to 

 find out what the birds are saying to each other 

 when they talk. I suppose," he queried, a little 

 defiantly, "you'll say that you believe birds don't 

 talk?" 



The pot-hunter shook his head. 



"They talk," he said; "leastwise, their different 



