If I were going to build a house with my wife, I should not choose a
season of the year when the bricks and planks and things were liable
to be torn out of her hand, her skirts blown over her head, and she
left clinging for dear life to a scaffolding pole. I know the
feminine biped and, you take it from me, that is not her notion of a
honeymoon. In April or May, the sun shining, the air balmy--when,
after carrying up to her a load or two of bricks, and a hod or two of
mortar, we could knock off work for a few minutes without fear of the
whole house being swept away into the next street--could sit side by
side on the top of a wall, our legs dangling down, and peck and
morsel together; after which I could whistle a bit to her--then
housebuilding might be a pleasure.

The swallows are wisest; June is their idea, and a very good idea,
too. In a mountain village in the Tyrol, early one summer, I had the
opportunity of watching very closely the building of a swallow's
nest. After coffee, the first morning, I stepped out from the great,
cool, dark passage of the wirtschaft into the blazing sunlight, and,
for no particular reason, pulled-to the massive door behind me.
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