IN OLD MARSHFIELD 5 



man loved, many of which he planted. A little 

 farther on stands a great barn with huge mows 

 and the big hay doors front and rear always hos- 

 pitably open to the scores of barn swallows that 

 build on the beams up next the roof. In no barn 

 have I found quite so many swallows at home. 

 At every vantage point on a beam, wherever a 

 corner of a timber or a locking pin protrudes to 

 give a support, nests have been built, generation 

 following generation till some of the structures 

 are curious, deep, inverted mud pyramids, topped 

 with straw and grass and lined with feathers, 

 downy beds for the clamorous young. I can think 

 of no finer picture of rural peace than such a barn 

 as this, the cool wind sighing gently through the 

 wide doors, the beams stretching across the cav- 

 ernous space above dotted with the gray nests, the 

 air full of the friendly, homey twittering of the 

 birds, some resting and preening their feathers 

 on the beams, others swinging in amazing flight 

 down and out through the doors to skim the grass 

 of the neighboring fields and marshes for food, 

 then flashing back again to the hungry nestlings. 

 Such barns grow fewer year by year here in 



