56 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



One rainy day he sat in the pig-pen window looking 

 out at the gray, wet world. He was humped and 

 silent and meditative, his whole attitude speaking 

 the extreme length of his day, the monotony of the 

 drip, drip, drip from the eaves, and the sitting, the 

 ceaseless sitting, of his brooding wife. He might 

 have hastened the time by catching a few flies for 

 her or by taking her place on the nest ; but I never 

 saw him do it. 



Things were livelier when the eggs hatched, for 

 it required a good many flies a day to keep the five 

 young ones growing. And how they grew! Like 

 bread sponge in a pan, they began to rise, pushing 

 the mother up so that she was forced to stand over 

 them ; then pushing her out until she could cling 

 only to the side of the nest at night; then pushing 

 her off altogether. By this time they were hanging 

 to the outside themselves, covering the nest from 

 sight almost, until finally they spilled off upon their 

 wings. 



Out of the nest upon the air ! Out of the pen and 

 into a sweet, wide world of green and blue and of 

 golden light ! I saw one of the broods take this first 

 flight, and it was thrilling. 



The nest was placed back from the window and 

 below it, so that in leaving the nest the young would 

 have to drop, then turn and fly up to get out. Below 

 was the pig. 



As they grew, I began to fear that they might try 



