IX. 



THE SWALLOWS AGAIN. 



AT last the long-wished-for rain has come in earnest ; 

 the ground has drunk in water enough to give it more 

 than a mere surface wetting ; and the grass and leaves 

 begin to look themselves again after the long spell of dry 

 and warping weather. We had a few slight showers last 

 week, but they barely sufficed to lay the dust for a 

 couple of hours ; and as soon as they had dried up, the 

 east wind blew it about once more, so that even the 

 young green on the hedges and the horse-chestnuts was 

 smothered in a loose coat of grayish grime. Now, how- 

 ever, nature comes out anew after the downpour in its 

 freshest spring colors. The clouds still lower, and the 

 tops of the downs are still lost in slowly shifting mists ; 

 so to-day the swallows have left the open meadows and 

 are flitting low above the river, gaping open-mouthed at 

 the water-flies and skimming the surface of the stream 

 with their long blue-black wings. Leaning here on the 

 rough parapet of the old stone bridge, I can see the flies 

 at which they are darting just below me ; for swallows 

 are always fearless of man when on the wing, and do not 

 hesitate to approach him flying ; though they seem 

 hardly ever to alight anywhere within an easy stone's- 

 throw when he is by, except of course in their nests. 

 Their ceaseless motion and their curious independence of 

 rest strikingly recall the little humming-birds whom I 

 have often watched in like manner, whirring past me 

 from flower to flower in tropical gardens ; and, strange 



