XXVIII. MY NATIVE LAND

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own — my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well!
For him no minstrel's raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

XXIX. THE SWALLOWS

1. Two barn swallows came into our woodshed in the springtime. Their busy, earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that they were looking out a building spot; but, as a carpenter's bench was under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing,

and planing were going on, I had little hope they would choose a location under our roof.

2. To my surprise, however, they soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open doorway. I was delighted, and spent much time in watching them. It was, in fact, a beautiful little drama of domestic love; the mother bird was so busy and so important, and her mate was so attentive. He scarcely ever left the side of the nest. There he was, all day long, twittering in tones that were most obviously the outpourings of love.

3. Sometimes he would bring in a straw, or a hair, to be inwoven in the precious little fabric. One day my attention was arrested by a very unusual twittering, and I saw him circling round with a large downy feather in his bill. He bent over the unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate with the most graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she put up her mouth to take it, he poured forth such a gush of gladsome sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had swelled his heart till it was almost too big for his little bosom.

4. During the process of incubation, he volunteered to perform his share of household duty. Three or four times a day, he would, with coaxing twitterings, persuade his patient mate to fly abroad for food; and the moment she left the eggs, he

"SOMETIMES HE WOULD BRING IN A STRAW, OR A HAIR, TO BE INTERWOVEN

would take the maternal station, and give a loud alarm whenever cat or dog came about the premises. When the young ones came forth, he shared in the mother's toils, and brought at least half the food for his greedy little family.

5. But when they became old enough to fly, the gravest philosopher would have laughed to watch the maneuvers! Such chirping and twittering! such diving down from the nest, and flying up again! such wheeling round in circles, talking to the young ones all the while! such clinging to the sides of the shed with their sharp claws, to show the timid little fledglings that there was no need of falling!

6. For three days all this was carried on with increasing activity. It was obviously an infant flying school. But all their talking and twittering were of no avail. The little downy things looked down, and then looked up, and, alarmed at the wide space, sank down into the nest again.

7. At length the parents grew impatient, and summoned their neighbors. As I was picking up chips one day, I found my head encircled with a swarm of swallows. They flew up to the nest, and chattered away to the young ones; they clung to the walls, looking back to tell how the thing was done; they dived, and wheeled, and balanced, and floated, in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold.