THE SWALLOW. 



black face. Who, then, art them, thou who always concealest thyself, 



who never showest me aught 



but thy trenchant wings 



scythes rapid as that of Time ? 



But Time goes forward without 



pause ; thou, thou always re- 



turnest. Thou drawest close to 



my side ; it seems as if thou 



wouldst graze me, wouldst touch 



me ? So nearly dost thou caress 



me, that I feel in my face the 



wind, almost the whirr of thy 



wings. Is it a bird ? Is it 



a spirit ? All, if thou art a 



soul, tell me so frankly, and 



reveal to me the barrier which 



separates the living from the 



dead. 



But let us not anticipate, 

 nor let loose the waters of 



bitterness. Rather let us trace this bird in the people's thoughts, 

 in the good old popular wisdom, close akin, undoubtedly, to the 

 wisdom of Nature. 



The people have seen in her only the natural dial, the division of 

 the seasons, of the two great hours of the year. At Easter and at 

 Michaelmas, at the epochs of family gatherings, of fairs and markets, 

 of leases and rent-paying, the black and white swallow appears, 

 and tells us the time. She comes to separate and define the 

 past and the coming seasons. At these epochs families and friends 

 meet together, but not always to find the circle complete ; in the last 

 six months this friend has disappeared, and that. The swallow 

 returns, but not for all ; many have gone a very long journey, longer 

 than the tour of France. To Germany ? No ; further, further still. 



Our companions, industrious travellers, followed the swallow's 



