THE SWALLOW BABIES. 65 



clown, stretching his neck in his desire to see 

 everything; he critically examined the tuft of 

 leaves near him; he peered over and under a 

 neighboring branch, and then gazed gravely 

 around on the prospect before him. He flew 

 with ease, and alighted with the grace of his 

 family, on the bare trunk of a tree, the straight 

 side of a picket, or any other unlikely place for 

 a bird to be found. For a week he came and 

 went and was watched and studied, but one 

 day the strawberries were gathered in the old 

 garden, and the beautiful brown thrush baby 

 appeared no more. 



The world was not deserted of bird voices, 

 however. 



" Swift brig-lit wing's flitted in and out 

 And happy chirpings were all about." 



For days the wood had resounded with the 

 shrill little cries of swallow babies, who alig^hted 

 on the low trees on the border while their busy 

 parents skimmed over the bay, or the marshy 

 shore, and every few minutes brought food to 

 their clamorous offspring. I had a remarkably 

 good opportunity to make the acquaintance of this 

 youngster — the white-bellied swallow. There 

 were dozens of them, and the half groAvn trees 

 were their chosen perches. The droll little fel- 

 lows, with white fluffy breasts, no feet to speak 

 of, and 



