e a heap smarter'n
chickens, anyway," she asserted. "I never can get one of the chickens
to feed out of a spoon, and the ducks like it the best kind." To
convince him she held toward them a large baking spoon of soured milk.
This milk was thickened into a paste or ball by being put on the stove
and separated from the whey, or watery part, by the action of the heat.

It was a favorite dish with the fowls, and they all smacked their lips
when they saw it coming.

As fast as Betty could fill the spoon it was emptied by the ducks, who
stuck their big yellow bills into it and devoured the contents, letting
the chickens below scramble and push and pick each other for any stray
bits that fell to the ground.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Betty triumphantly. "Them chickens had just
as good a chance as the ducks, but they wouldn't take it."

"Huh!" answered Joe. "Their necks ain't long enough, is what's the
matter."

There were several trees in the yard, and often when the fowls were
fed, birds flew down from their leafy recesses to pick up the crumbs
left lying about. How I used to wish they would come near enough to my
cage that I might converse with them, but it always happened that just
at the time when one of them would settle close to the house, either
Joe's little dog, Colly, would run across the yard, or Betty or her
mother would appear at the door and frighten my feathered friend away.
Only once did I exchange a word with any of these birds, and that for
but a few short minutes.

The bird did not belong to our family, nor had I ever met any of his
relatives before, but that made but little difference. He was a bird,
and that was enough. We did not wait for any formal introduction; but
as he balanced himself on the edge of my cage he hurriedly told me news
of the woods, and how he wished I might get free and come to live
there. He told of the lovely dragon flies, with purple, burnished
wings that floated in the forest, mingling their drowsy hum with the
chirping of the birds. He told of the great mossy carpet spread under
the trees; how at set of day the owls came out, and the moles rustled
in the fallen leaves, and the frogs raised their evening hymn to the
sinking sun.

I could have listened for hours to the sweet familiar tale my feathered
brother told of life in the happy woodland, but Betty's mother suddenly
hurrying out to the pump to fill her bucket, cut short the story, and
away my bird friend skimm