THE HOME-COMING 



FOUR swallows more than enough, as every one 

 knows, to justify us in the belief that the sour weather 

 of an unusually shrewish spring has had its day. It 

 is in the valley of the Adur, about four miles from 

 the sea, and the behaviour of our swallows is by no 

 means that of high summer. Instead of skimming 

 here and there with a swiftness greater than that of 

 the cloud-shadows, they are steadily winging up the 

 valley towards the north. We have to look twice 

 to be sure that they are swallows, so plodding is their 

 flight. The rosy breast of the leader wavers as it 

 approaches, making manifest how tired the little 

 troop is. They are probably going fifteen miles an 

 hour for all that. We catch a glimpse of their long 

 forked tails as they pass, then watch them just clear 

 a big barn that crosses their route, and vanish into 

 the darkening north. 



The next morning we wake up in an up-country 

 farmhouse, to see swallows sitting on the dead bough 

 of the laburnum just below the window. By coin- 

 cidence they are just four, and we may be pardoned 

 for imagining that these are the birds that went up 

 the Adur yesterday afternoon. They sit at ease, or 

 rather completely relaxed, in the home garden they 

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