Flying, flying South. 115 



the nightingale. But there are scores of birds, who 

 cross the sea and settle here for the season, of whom 

 the world takes little heed. 



But it is otherwise with the swallow. No bird is 

 better known. No bird is so suggestive of the summer. 

 No other calls up so vividly memories of Halcyon 

 Days. 



With what joy we watch the first solitary swallow on 

 the April sky ! It is a sign to tell us Spring is born. 

 It is the time of violets. Copses are ringing with the 

 songs of thrush and blackbird. Overhead floats the 

 music of the lark. Then comes the swallow on his 

 sunny wings back from his perilous voyage to the old 

 roof whose thatch has sheltered him so long. 



What sweeter sound of springtime than his matin 

 song from the brown gable of the barn ? What 

 brighter touch of summer in the landscape than his 

 figure high in air, floating on glad wings amid scores 

 of happy comrades whose life is sunshine and whose 

 speech is song ? 



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