SWALLOW LIFE 



and more closely together we know that preparation is being 

 made for the fall migration and that the hour of their de- 

 parture is about to strike. Some day soon we may expect a 

 group of them — possibly the rough-winged or the martins — 

 coursing and whirling in ever-widening circles, then mount- 

 ing higher and starting for some perpetual summer land — 

 probably tropical America — where insects are always hum- 

 ming. 



On their way they will stop for brief rests among the 

 bayberries, which afford them both food and shelter — ^then 

 on strong wings covering ninety or a hxmdred miles an hour 

 — continue their journey. Soon they will be followed by 

 other groups, till the haunts that knew them are deserted and 

 we are left with only a memory of their happy, child-like, 

 twittering voices and their graceful, rhythmic flight. 



The swallow has no song — and needs none ; her elusive, 

 suggestive twitter sets chords in ourselves to vibrating that 

 awaken harmonies not of sound alone, but so blended with 

 color and motion that they are far more beautiful than any 

 mere outside song could ever be. Yet they are not wholly 

 within ourselves, for, having in them all the delightful sounds 

 and odors of a summer evening — all the glowing, permea- 

 ting, vanishing colors and shifting shadows of sunset skies — ^ 

 they carry us out of self. 



As the twitterings* of these loving and lovable birds 

 bring back to us a flood of recollections of a happy childhood, 

 when flitting, flickering fireflies were will-o'-the-wisps to be 

 followed about the dewy orchard with its fruity odors, we 

 bless the fairy who gave to these graceful, happy creatures 

 not only a perpetual childhood, but the power to recall in 

 us our own childhood — even though it be but for a moment. 



67 



