who loved birds. He had a power of making birds trust him. They would
come at his call, circling round him, perching on his shoulders,
eating from his hand. One of the swallows would come too, from his
nest under the eaves. As the summer wore on, he grew quite tame. And
when summer waned, and the other swallows flew away, this one
lingered, day after day, fluttering dubiously over the threshold of
the cottage. Presently, as the air grew chilly, he built a new nest
for himself, under the mantelpiece in my friend's study. And every
morning, so soon as the fire burned brightly, he would flutter down to
perch on the fender and bask in the light and warmth of the coals. But
after a few weeks he began to ail; possibly because the study was a
small one, and he could not get in it the exercise that he needed;
more probably because of the draughts. My friend's wife, who was very
clever with her needle, made for the swallow a little jacket of red
flannel, and sought to divert his mind by teaching him to perform a
few simple tricks. For a while he seemed to regain his spirits. But
presently he moped more than ever, crouching nearer than ever to the
fire, and, sidelong, blinking dim weak reproaches at his disappointed
master and mistress. One swallow, as the adage truly says, does not
make a summer. So this one's mistress hurriedly made for him a little
overcoat of sealskin, wearing which, in a muffled cage, he was
personally conducted by his master straight through to Sicily. There
he was nursed back to health, and liberated on a sunny plain. He never
returned to his English home; but the nest he built under the
mantelpiece is still preserved in case he should come at last.

When the sun's rays slant down upon your grate, then the fire blanches
and blenches, cowers, crumbles, and collapses. It cannot compete with
its archetype. It cannot suffice a sun-steeped swallow, or ripen a
plum, or parch the carpet. Yet, in its modest way, it is to your room