YOUNG SWALLOWS 217 



There is not a stage in his six months' residence 

 with us, or in the growth of the two young families, 

 which he rears to maturity during them, that has 

 not some special interest of its own. Notice, as he 

 pitches by a puddle on the roadside, along with his 

 fellows, the martins, "puddling" the clay for his 

 straw-built nest that is to be, how daintily he holds 

 up his long wings and tail, lest they too may be 

 "puddled" in the process. Notice, again, how 

 when the mother swallow has tempted her brood to 

 take their first adventurous plunge from the 

 chimney-top on to the ridge of the thatch below, 

 how she returns, every minute or two, to the little 

 row of open mouths and, hovering over them, fills 

 each in turn with food, accompanied by a fond 

 twitter of unselfish maternal love, which is returned 

 with interest, by the half-cupboard love of the five 

 little eager throats below. This process it used to 

 be mine to watch through the dormer window of 

 the attic in which I slept, as they were perched on 

 the leads just outside of it, from the distance of a 

 few feet only. The young birds of the year soon 

 gather into little flocks, and these again into larger 

 ones, lining, in common with the martins, now the 

 whole ridge of the thatch, and, now again, the 

 telegraph wires, which I well remember they seemed 



