THE SWALLOW. 106 
black face. Who, then, art thou, thou who always concealest. thyself, 
who never showest me aught 
but thy trenchant wings — 
scythes rapid as that of Time ? 
But Time goes forward without 
pause; thou, thou always re- 
turnest. Thou drawest close to 
my side; it seems as if thou 
wouldst graze me, wouldst touch 
me ?—So nearly dost thou caress 
me, that I feel in my face the 
wind, almost the whirr of thy 
wings. Is it a bird? Is it 
a spirit? Ah, if thou art a 
soul, tell me so frankly, and 
reveal to me the barrier which 
separates the living from the 
dead. 
But let us not anticipate, 
nor let loose the waters of 
bitterness. Rather let us trace this bird in the people’s thoughts, 
in the good old popular wisdom, close akin, undoubtedly, to the 
wisdom of Nature. 
The people have seen in her only the natural dial, the division of 
the seasons, of the two great hours of the year. At Easter and at 
Michaelmas, at the epochs of family gatherings, of fairs and markets, 
of leases and rent-paying, the black and white swallow appears, 
and tells us the time. She comes to separate and define the 
past and the coming seasons. At these epochs families and friends 
meet together, but not always to find the circle complete ; in the last 
six months this friend has disappeared, and that. The swallow 
returns, but not for all; many have gone a very long journey, longer 
than the tour of France. To Germany? No; further, further still. 
Our companions, industrious travellers, followed the swallow’s 
