fervently believed the convincing words of a grade-school teacher to our little sponge selves as she explained how wee bits of yarn and string and miscellaneous whatnot scattered out of doors would be used by birds in the spring to build their nests. A soft length of mohair yarn, blown into the tall grass, once inspired images of cozy comfort for feathered friends.
After personally picking up a couple bags of bits and pieces the birds apparently rejected, I think there are two possibilities: 1-our teacher was a bit daft, or at least excessively idealistic, or 2- she had it in for our parents and derived some pathetic satisfaction in knowing we’d all go home and earnestly lobby our bewildered elders to take us on yarn flinging expeditions to help the poor little birdies. I will give her this: long Alberta winters can make for some pretty desperate bids for entertainment.
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