"It's awful hard to hit a swaller on the wing, but you can shoot 'em sittin' like pie."
Mr. Thompson and his friend were uninjured; and as they flew away in alarm, the bird said, in an ironical tone, "Such a feeling of freedom!"
Mr. Thompson said nothing, but flew back to the barn. After resting for a moment, the swallow said, "Let's go up to the Sound and visit my cousins, the bank-swallows."
Mr. Thompson followed the bird, and skimmed over the fields, snapping up a fly or two by the way, until they reached the high sand-cliffs which border Long Island Sound. Here, high up on the cliffs, were a number of small round holes; flying about them, and darting out and in were a number of small gray birds; sitting on a fence rail not far off were nearly a hundred more solemnly sunning themselves.
"I'll introduce you to one of them, and he will show you around," said Mr. Thompson's friend.
After the introduction had been effected, the bank-swallow said, in an inquiring tone, "You are interested in birds?"
"Yes," said Mr. Thompson; "theirs is so glorious and free a life."
The swallow smiled pityingly; then, as if to change the subject, invited Mr. Thompson to visit his house. It was high up under the overhanging edge of the cliff.
The swallow led the way, and Mr. Thompson followed through a corridor about a foot long, and slanting slightly upward in order that the rain would not drive into the nest. At the end of the corridor was a circular apartment, lined with feathers and sea-weed, and here sat Mrs. Bank-Swallow upon four speckled eggs. Mr. Thompson did not wish to disturb her, so he retreated soon after having been introduced. His companion led the way back to the rail upon which the barn-swallow was seated, waiting. After a slight pause, Mr. Thompson inquired, "May I ask what you find to eat up here?"
"Certainly," replied the bank-swallow, good-naturedly. "During the summer we eat grubs, flies, mosquitoes, and the like; in the fall, when the bayberries are ripe, we eat them. You know each berry is covered with a coating of vegetable wax, and we get very fat; then people shoot us, for they say the berries give us a delicious flavor," added he, bitterly.
Mr. Thompson sighed, and was lost for a moment in reverie, when he was suddenly aroused by his companions suddenly screaming, "A hawk!"