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. I
delight 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.