168 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



a comment or a word of love. If it was a com- 

 ment it was full of happy content ; if a word of 

 love it must have sounded very sweet to its mate. 

 Back and forth over the Assabet and its mead, 

 ows passed the white-bellied swallows. The 

 sunlight found favor in the blue lustre of their 

 backs, and as they rose and fell, turned left or 

 turned right, the immaculate whiteness of their 

 under plumage also responded, flashing to the 

 touch of light. They are my favorites among 

 the swallows. The martins are dark and 

 strong, the bank swallows small and lacking in 

 individuality ; the eaves swallows irregularly 

 distributed and petulant, the barn swallows less 

 graceful in flight and less perfect in form. As 

 for the swifts they are not swallows, and if they 

 were, they seem to be only animated forms of 

 soot possessed of the power of flying through 

 space with incredible speed, and of steering them- 

 selves without tails. 



The bushes and grasses in and upon the 

 banks of the As"sabet were alive with red- 

 wing blackbirds. The males, gay in plumage, 

 noisy and restless, seemed to pervade the 

 meadows. The females, smaller, sober in 

 dress and more chary of speech, flitted back 

 and forth in everlasting bustle. I saw no bobo- 

 links. Occasionally the plaintive call of a 

 meadow starling blended with the blackbird 



