While filling my pipe,a swallow almost brushed by me,then wheeled round again,and took up a position on the fence only a few yards from me.He was carrying what to him was an exceptionally large and heavy brick.He put it down beside him on the fence,and called out something which I could not understand.I did not move.He got quite excited and said some more.It was undoubtable he was addressing me--nobody else was by.I judged from his tone that he was getting cross with me.At this point my travelling companion,his toilet unfinished,put his head out of the window just above me.
"Such an odd thing,"he called down to me."I never noticed it last night.A pair of swallows are building a nest here in the hall.
You've got to be careful you don't mistake it for a hat-peg.The old lady says they have built there regularly for the last three years."Then it came to me what it was the gentleman had been saying to me:
"I say,sir,you with the bit of wood in your mouth,you have been and shut the door and I can't get in."Now,with the key in my possession,it was so clear and understandable,I really forgot for the moment he was only a bird.
"I beg your pardon,"I replied,"I had no idea.Such an extraordinary place to build a nest."I opened the door for him,and,taking up his brick again,he entered,and I followed him in.There was a deal of talk.
"He shut the door,"I heard him say,"Chap there,sucking the bit of wood.Thought I was never going to get in.""I know,"was the answer;"it has been so dark in here,if you'll believe me,I've hardly been able to see what I've been doing.""Fine brick,isn't it?Where will you have it?"Observing me sitting there,they lowered their voices.Evidently she wanted him to put the brick down and leave her to think.She was not quite sure where she would have it.He,on the other hand,was sure he had found the right place for it.He pointed it out to her and explained his views.Other birds quarrel a good deal during nest building,but swallows are the gentlest of little people.She let him put it where he wanted to,and he kissed her and ran out.She cocked her eye after him,watched till he was out of sight,then deftly and quickly slipped it out and fixed it the other side of the door.
"Poor dears"(I could see it in the toss of her head);"they will think they know best;it is just as well not to argue with them."Every summer I suffer much from indignation.I love to watch the swallows building.They build beneath the eaves outside my study window.Such cheerful little chatter-boxes they are.Long after sunset,when all the other birds are sleeping,the swallows still are chattering softly.It sounds as if they were telling one another some pretty story,and often I am sure there must be humour in it,for every now and then one hears a little twittering laugh.Idelight in having them there,so close to me.The fancy comes to me that one day,when my brain has grown more cunning,I,too,listening in the twilight,shall hear the stories that they tell.
One or two phrases already I have come to understand:"Once upon a time"--"Long,long ago"--"In a strange,far-off land."I hear these words so constantly,I am sure I have them right.I call it "Swallow Street,"this row of six or seven nests.Two or three,like villas in their own grounds,stand alone,and others are semi-detached.It makes me angry that the sparrows will come and steal them.The sparrows will hang about deliberately waiting for a pair of swallows to finish their nest,and then,with a brutal laugh that makes my blood boil,drive the swallows away and take possession of it.And the swallows are so wonderfully patient.
