THE LONE SWALLOWS 



ALONG the trackless and uncharted airlines 

 from the southern sun they came, a lone 

 pair of swallows, arriving with weakly and 

 uncertain flight from over the wastes of the 

 sea. They rested on a gorse bush, their 

 blue backs beautiful against the store of 

 golden blossom guarded by the jade spikes. 

 The last day of March had just blown with 

 the wind into eternity. Symbols of summer 

 and of loveliness, they came with young 

 April, while yet the celandines were un- 

 bleached, while the wild white strawberry 

 and ragged-robin were opening with the 

 dog violet. On the headland the flowers 

 struggle for both life and livelihood, the 

 sward is cropped close by generations of 

 sheep, and the sea-wind is damp and cold. 

 Perhaps the swallows hoped to nest, as 

 their ancestors had done centuries since, in 



