THE BIRDS. 101 



" Hark ! where my blossomed Pear-tree in the hedge 

 Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover 



Blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's edge 

 That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over, 



Lest you should think he never could recapture 



The first fine careless rapture." 



But there is one bird dearer to us than the 

 thrush, and that is the swallow, which for some 

 years past has built its nest in our porch. It has 

 been pretty to mark her skimming round and 

 round with anxious watching, till we have left the 

 place. Prettier still, when we have kept ourselves 

 concealed, to see her darting upwards to the nest, 

 which was fringed by four little heads all in a row, 

 and, going from one to the other, give each its 

 share. We could hear the sharp little cry of 

 satisfaction as each nestling was attended to. 

 How much the poets have written about swal- 

 lows ! There is the charming passage in Long- 

 fellow's " Golden Legend," where the old monk is 

 speaking; he is the librarian, whose duty it is to 

 illuminate the missals for the convent's use and 

 pride : 



'* How the swallows twitter under the eaves ! 

 There, now there is one in her nest ; 

 I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, 

 And will sketch her thus in her quiet nook, 

 For the margin of my gospel-book." 



