THE BARN SWALLOW 
THERE is no pleasanter sight among birds than a family of 
young reared in the neighborhood of man and often on some part 
of his house itself. Visit an old farmhouse; look about and see 
how many welcome guests the farmer shelters without thought of 
pecuniary profit. Under the woodshed, on a beam, the Phoebe has 
built a nest of moss, from which she flies to the barnyard to pursue 
the insects that swarm there. In the vines on the piazza, Robins 
and Chipping Sparrows have reared their young. In the old elm 
over the door, an Oriole has woven a nest with thread twitched 
from the clothesline or perhaps purposely laid out for her, and the 
orchard shelters numbers of species — Bluebirds, Woodpeckers, King- 
birds, and Chebecs. Of all these tenants, however, none seem so 
completely at home as the swallows; none show so little concern at 
man’s presence; none take possession so coolly of the boxes, the 
eaves, or the rafters where they build. Their kindred lived with 
man, ages ago, in Greece and Rome; they have been welcomed 
each spring as heralds of a joyful season; their departure has been 
watched with regret. Though they have but few notes which are 
musical, yet their grace, agility, and swiftness have passed into 
proverb and song. 
There are several species of swallow, or martin, which take 
advantage of man’s structures in or on which to place their nests, 
but the most numerous, the most familiar to people in general, and 
perhaps the most attractive, is the Barn Swallow. This is the only 
species whose outer tail feathers are long and pointed, and form 
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