THE SUMMIT OF THE YEARS 



nor of movement, yet endeared to us by a hundred 

 associations. The swallow has the grace of form and 

 power of wing of the tireless sea-birds, and is almost 

 as helpless and awkward on its feet as are some of the 

 latter. The pair I am watching flash out and in the 

 old barn like streaks of steel-blue lightning. I watch 

 them hawking for insects over a broad meadow of 

 timothy grass that slopes up to the woods that 

 crown the hill. The mother bird is the more indus- 

 trious; she makes at least three times as many trips 

 in the course of an hour as does her mate; whether 

 she returns with as loaded a beak or not, I have no 

 means of knowing, but would wager that she does. 

 Among nearly all species of birds the mother is the 

 main bread-winner. I have recently had under 

 observation a nest of young bluebirds in a cavity 

 made by a downy woodpecker in a small birch-tree, 

 a section of which I brought from the woods last 

 fall and fastened up to one corner of my porch. The 

 mother bird had entire care of the brood, bringing 

 food every few minutes all day long. Not till the 

 last day that the young were in the nest did the male 

 appear, and then he took entire charge, and the 

 mother either went off on a holiday, or else some un- 

 toward fate befell her. 



I look up from my writing scores of times during 



the day to see the two swallows coursing low over 



the meadow of rippling daisies and timothy, tacking, 



darting, rising, falling, now turning abruptly, now 



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