12 Birds that come to our 



goes far towards enlivening the dulness of the High 

 Street. They wheel backwards and forwards. They 

 settle on the road to collect the mud for their wonder- 

 ful nests after a thunder-shower has pelted down. 

 Their snowy tail coverts really glisten as they shoot 

 rapidly away. 



And there in long rows, under the broad eaves of 

 some quaint red-brick house, with its tiled roof and its 

 white-edged windows, they plaster their mud huts and 

 line them with feathers. In building their nests they 

 use straggling stems of hay or straw, which sometimes 

 depend from between the layers of encrusted and 

 hardened mud. 



When the young are hatched the parents flit to and 

 fro from early morn till sunset, incessantly bringing the 

 flies without which they would perish. 



Sites that one would think they would choose they 

 pass by, and if the martins do not honour my house 

 with their presence, I envy an aged lady down in the 

 village, under the thatched eaves of whose white- 

 washed cottage there are ten or a dozen nests. As she 

 sits in her doorway with her lace pillow on her knees, 

 her broad-brimmed spectacles perched on her nose, and 

 her cat snoozing in the rays of the western sun, the 

 bobbins clicking swiftly under horny but deft fingers, 

 she is the centre-piece of so peaceful a scene, that one's 

 feelings of envy seem to creep beyond the coveted 

 martins. For the old lady looks happy. The deep 

 furrows of age upon her face have formed themselves 

 in wrinkles, significant of a peaceful heart and of 

 troubles lived down. There are no stern lines to draw 



