There were times when David would take Graham with him on long rambles, and then he would talk. He knew everything about the birds, their habits, their peculiarities, their fears, and their courage. He put into Graham a great love for the little creatures. Often together near a nest they would stand, and, scarce breathing, watch the first lesson given by a mother bird to a frightened young one.
"She's greater, that mother, than some humans," David said once, when they were on their way home.
"Why?" asked Graham, interestedly.
"Well," said David, slowly, "we most of us hold on too long when it's time for those we love to try their wings."
"You wouldn't hold on, would you, David?" asked Graham, his boyish eyes upturned in perfect faith to his friend.
"I might, Graham; human nature is weak and wants always its own."
Upon reaching home Graham would ask: "Will you have time to go riding this afternoon, David?"
And David would answer: "Perhaps, my lad, if there's not too much work in the gardens."
Once Graham asked: "Why do you do such work, David? You could be in the city making lots of money." Thus Graham, who through heritage had been innoculated with that thought, that money meant everything.
And David had turned with a swift gesture: "Why should I mistreat my spirit, kill my brightest self trying for money, young Graham? Here among my flowers, working in the soil, I find time to think."