86 WINTER 



them, why, what could I do but let them go even 

 into my own meadow ? This has happened several 

 times. 



When the drought dries the meadow, the voles 

 come to the deep, plank-walled spring at the upper 

 end, to drink. The water usually trickles over the 

 curb, but in a long dry spell it shrinks to a foot or 

 more below the edge, and the voles, once within for 

 their drink, cannot get out. Time and again I had 

 fished them up, until I thought to leave a board 

 slanting down to the water, so that they could climb 

 back to the top. 



It is wholesome to be the good Samaritan to a 

 meadow mouse, to pour out, even waste, a little of 

 the oil and wine of sympathy on the humblest of our 

 needy neighbors. 



Here are the chimney swallows, too. One can look 

 with complacency, with gratitude, indeed, upon the 

 swallows of other chimneys, as they hawk in the 

 sky ; yet, when the little creatures, so useful, but so 

 uncombed and unfumigated, set up their establish- 

 ments in your chimney, to the jeopardy of the whole 

 house, then you need an experience like mine. 



I had had a like experience years before, when 

 the house did not belong to me. This time, how- 

 ever, the house was mine, and if it became infested 

 with vermin because of the swallows, I could not 

 move away ; so I felt like burning them in the chim- 

 ney, bag and baggage. There were four nests, as 



