24 GRAY LADY AND THE BIRDS 
“You can’t make friends of birds; they won’t let you,” 
said Dave Drake, who was a sickly, lanky boy of fourteen 
with a whining voice; ‘they always fly away. That is, I 
mean tree birds, not chickens nor pigeons.” 
“Chickens aren’t birds, they’re only young hens,’ put 
in Eliza Clausen, with an expression of withering contempt. 
She was one of the big fourteen-year-old girls, and not 
being a good scholar was apt to use opposition in the place 
of information. 
“We can make friends of at least some birds,” said 
Gray Lady, “if we are kind to them. When we have 
human visitors come to stay with us, what do we do for 
them ?” 
“We let them sleep in the best bedroom, and we get 
out the best china and have awful good things to eat, 
and give ’em a good time,” said Ruth Barnes, all in one 
breath. 
“Yes, and we should do much the same with our bird 
friends. They do not need to have a bedroom prepared ; 
they can generally find that for themselves, though even 
this is sometimes necessary in bad weather; but they 
often need food, and in order that they should have what 
Ruth calls ‘a good time,’ we must let them alone and 
not interfere with their comings and goings. 
“Go softly to the west window and look out,’’ continued 
Gray Lady, raising a finger to caution silence, for from 
her seat on the little platform she could see over the chil- 
dren’s heads and out both door and windows, “and see 
the hungry visitors that a little food has brought to the 
very door.”’ 
The children tiptoed to one side of the room, and there, 
