gloom of the mows, we hear the munching 

 horses and the summer rain upon the shingles, 

 every time a barn-swallow slips past us. 



For grace of form and poetry of motion there 

 is no rival for the barn-swallow. When on 

 wing, where else, between the point of a beak 

 and the tips of a tail, are there so many marvel- 

 ous curves, such beautiful balance of parts ? On 

 the wing, I say. Upon his feet he is as awk- 

 ward as the latest Herreshoff yacht upon the 

 stays. But he is the yacht of the air. Every 

 line of him is drawn for racing. The narrow, 

 wide-reaching wings and the long, forked tail 

 are the perfection of lightness, swiftness, and 

 power. A master designed him saved every 

 possible feather's weight, bent from stem to 

 stern, and rigged him to outsail the very winds. 



From the barn to the orchard is no great 

 journey ; but it is the distance between two 

 bird-lands. One must cross the Mississippi basin, 

 the Rocky Mountains, or the Pacific Ocean to 

 find a greater change in bird life than he finds 

 in leaping the bars between the yard and the 

 orchard. 



A bent, rheumatic, hoary old orchard is na- 

 [76] 



