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- 

 [136] 



