354 GRAY LADY AND THE BIRDS 
they ask, or, better yet, nail a few wide braces under the 
roof of a wagon, cattle, or wood shed, even if it does not 
need supporting. Then, before the first Robin or Chip- 
ping-sparrow awakens, when the first flush of light pene- 
trates the darkness of night, you will have a home sentinel 
at hand to ery, ‘Phoebe! I see, all’s well!’ to the morning, 
and at evening she will blend her voice with the Whip- 
poor-will’s in wishing you good night, for though Phoebe 
is early to come in the spring and early to rise in the morn- 
ing, she goes late to bed and meets the bats in the sky 
during her evening excursions.” 
“Maybe Pheoebes don’t really sing, but they think they 
do,’ said Tommy, as Gray Lady looked in vain in her 
scrap-book for a poem that should do the bird Justice 
and be catching in rhythm. 
“Sometimes in May they get up on the roof or the tele- 
phone wire or something like that, and tumble somer- 
saults into the air and ery ‘ phcebe-phcebe-phcebe-pheebe,’ 
on and on and on and over again, like the Katydids and 
Katydidn’ts in the maples at night, only the Phcebe is so 
worked up she can only think of her own name.” 
“Then this verse of Lowell’s at least is true,” said Gray 
Lady, closing the scrap-book. 
“Pheebe is all it has to say 
In plaintive cadence o’er and o’er, 
Like children that have lost their way 
And know their names, but nothing more.” 
