i9o SWALLOW BROW 



the wind as it swings the little gray and 

 purple pollen-bells that you love to knock 

 off with your hand. And the sound you 

 hear is sometimes the love whisper of the 

 stems as they tell one another that the 

 baby seeds are being born. For if the 

 seeds are born before the mowers come 

 they are very happy. It is always so among 

 the wild flowers, my love. All they live 

 for is the seeds." 



" I am sad when I see the grasses cut," 

 said Jo, " for often the little larks are killed 

 and the sorrel dies, and the golden butter- 

 cups, and all the sweet flowers." 



" Do not be sad, darling," twittered the 

 swallow, " for all beauty must die. And 

 beauty gives itself willingly in death when 

 it loves. I remember when I was young 

 we passed over a strange land at dawn, 

 just as the light was coming to cheer us, 

 and below were still figures on the slopes 

 of the hill. We knew that they had given 

 their lives to save their beautiful land: we 



