68 THE MOUNTAINS 



orchard, deftly avoiding the tops of the 

 trees. They turn, suddenly, in any pos- 

 sible direction — up, down, right, left — and 

 all of it is done as lightly, as airily, as 

 thistle-down catches a whisper of the 

 breeze. They swoop, and, like mischiev- 

 ous torments, just graze some living thing, 

 say a dog or a cat, but, before the dog 

 can snap or the cat can spring, the swal- 

 low is half way to Anywhere. They dally, 

 actually dally with the wind— rise with 

 the wind, ride upon the wind, toss about 

 with the wind — then, in sudden challenge, 

 they face the wind and master it, shooting 

 along as straight and unhindered as an 

 arrow speeding toward the mark. 



And if you are only fortunate enough 

 to see barn swallows feeding their young 

 on the wing! — parent and chick close to- 

 gether, mounting higher and higher, little 

 breast often against larger breast, short 

 tail sometimes covered by forked-tail, 

 heads almost touching, and every motion 

 seeming to belong to the wide, splendid 



