"There may be flashes of humour here and there--"

She did not wait for me to finish.

"Because if it's meant to be funny," she said, "I don't think it is
at all funny. And if it is intended to be serious, there's one thing
very clear, and that is that you are not a mother."

With the unerring instinct of the born critic she had divined my one
weak point. Other objections raised against me I could have met.
But that one stinging reproach was unanswerable. It has made me, as
I have explained, chary of tendering advice on matters outside my own
department of life. Otherwise, every year, about Valentine's day,
there is much that I should like to say to my good friends the birds.
I want to put it to them seriously. Is not the month of February
just a little too early? Of course, their answer would be the same
as in the case of my motherly friend.

"Oh, what do you know about it? you are not a bird."

I know I am not a bird, but that is the very reason why they should
listen to me. I bring a fresh mind to bear upon the subject. I am
not tied down by bird convention. February, my dear friends--in
these northern climes of ours at all events--is much too early. You
have to build in a high wind, and nothing, believe me, tries a lady's
temper more than being blown about. Nature is nature, and womenfolk,
my dear sirs, are the same all the world over, whether they be birds
or whether they be human. I am an older person than most of you, and
I speak with the weight of experience.