"How happy my children are to-day!" she said, and she hummed a little tune to herself.
"They are very wise children!" said a neighbour. "They say so many wonderful things. Indeed, they seem to know more of some things than even the wise men of the village!"
"Yes, they are quite wonderful," said the mother. "I sometimes listen to their chatter and watch their nimble little fingers, and I wonder who taught them all they know."
"Oh," said another woman, "they do not seem so extraordinary to me. In fact, they look to me like little birds, flitting about in their dark dresses."
"They do look like birds!" said the mother, gazing at the children.
"I do believe they are birds," said the neighbour.
"But the voices are my children's voices," said the mother, looking again in wonder.
"And they are still building tiny clay houses on the cliffs!" said the other woman.
"But those toy clay houses are birds' nests," said the neighbour, "and those little figures darting back and forth are no longer children.
They have changed to birds!"
"Yes," said the mother, peering from under her hand. "Yes, those are birds building their funny clay nests on the cliffs yonder.
"But the birds have the happy twittering voices of my children. You were right. They were wonderful children!
"Ah, well, my only wish is that they may remain near us. They will cheer us and keep us from becoming lonely!"
"Surely that is a reasonable wish--since they are your own little ones," said the neighbour. "I, too, hope that the little birds will remain near our village!"
And indeed the mother's wish was granted. Even to this day the little swallows do not fear man.
In fact, they still choose to build their nests near the camps of the people. They still fix their tiny toy houses on the faces of the sea cliffs.
ALL ABOUT THE BARN SWALLOW
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Comes north about first or second week in April. Remains until late September or October--builds and travels in flocks or companies--winters in South or Central America.
Song--a constant twitter.
Head and upper parts except forehead steel blue--tail feathers marked with white--forehead and throat clear chestnut colour--chest and lower body paler chestnut.
Food--chiefly insects caught while on the wing.
Nest--built chiefly of mud--chooses under eaves or cavelike places for building--mud mixed with grasses and (one authority also asserts) a sticky saliva from the bird's mouth.
Eggs--white, tinted a delicate rose, and speckled finely with brown and purple.--Two or three broods in a season.
THE HAWK AND THE RAVEN
[Illustration: The Hawk]
FROM THE BARNYARD FENCE
Had not the old hen been such a watchful mother she would never have been able to care for such a big, fluffy family.
Had not Phyllis been such a wide-awake little girl, she would have never heard and seen all that I am about to tell you.
Mother Speckle was scratching patiently in the barnyard. Now and again she gave a loud call and her ten little ones ran wildly for the bug or worm which their mother had found for them.
Phyllis was just coming into the barnyard with a cup of meal for Mother Speckle's family, when a strange cry from the old hen startled her.
Phyllis looked and saw every chick running as fast as its little legs could carry it to the hovering mother wings. Soon every chicken baby was hidden from sight and the chicken mother was clucking less loudly.
"What can be the matter?" cried Phyllis, and then looking up she saw a hawk circling in the air above.
She snatched off her hat and waved it wildly at the hawk. At the same time she shouted as fiercely as she could.
The hawk soared calmly in the air, rising ever higher and higher. The mother hen, calling softly to her babies, led the little ones to the protecting shelter of some low bushes. Then Phyllis sprinkled the meal and soon the chicken hawk was quite forgotten by Mother Speckle and her brood.
But Phyllis still watched eagerly for the hawk. She feared that he would return. But she could now see nothing of him.
On the fence post, not far away, sat a big black raven croaking gravely to himself.
"You are not a lovely bird either," said the little girl, but the raven did not hear her.
When she had crept up very close to the post on which the raven sat, Phyllis again saw the hawk sailing in wide circles nearer and nearer.
"Caw! Caw!" cried the raven, rising in the air, high above the barn.
"I, too, can sail about in circles! Caw! Caw! Caw!"
The hawk said nothing, but quietly settled on the fence post. The raven still circled in the air, but ever nearer.
The hawk looked up. The raven wagged his head solemnly and uttered his sad, harsh cry. He shook out his black feathers and sat down again on the post.
"I am called the bird of ill omen," said the raven. "Some people think that I bring bad luck. Others think I eat too much of their corn. No one likes me. No one thinks me beautiful.
"Yet if you will look at my black coat you will see how glossy it is.
My back fairly gleams in the sunlight. Sometimes I catch gleams of purple and green on my wings. See how soft and loose are the feathers about my throat. They make a fringe about my neck of which I am somewhat proud.
"I do not harm people, and I surely should not be blamed for my appetite. To be sure, I do eat corn and grain. I also eat grubs, worms, field mice, in fact anything which comes in my way.
"I have a home up in the top of the cedar-tree. My nest is round and firm. It is woven of sticks and grasses and lined with wool which I myself pick from the sheep's back.