MR. THOMPSON AND THE SWALLOWS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Mr. Thompson was sitting in the barn belonging to the farm where he had been spending the summer. He looked very disconsolate, and from time to time heaved such deep sighs as to greatly disturb the family of swallows who had their nest against the beam just above his head.

Poor Mr. Thompson had had a hard time all summer. First of all, he had met Miss Angelina, who had captured his heart; and everybody knows that the most miserable object on earth is an old bachelor in love.

"Oh, had I wings of a bird, I would fly—" murmured Mr. Thompson to himself.

"Course you would," interrupted a saucy voice.

Mr. Thompson looked up. On the edge of the mud nest just above his head sat a bright-looking barn-swallow, eying him curiously.

"Where would you fly to?" inquired the swallow.

"Away from this world of care," murmured Mr. Thompson.

The swallow laughed heartily.

"Well, I guess not; but you can try, if you want to."

Mr. Thompson felt himself begin to shrink, and saw his clothes slowly disappear and become changed into feathers. But he was getting so used to these metamorphoses that he didn't mind it, and really gazed upon himself with satisfaction as finally he felt that he was a perfect swallow.

"Come up here," said the swallow.

Mr. Thompson stretched his wings, and fluttered up to the nest beside his friend.

"How do you like it?" inquired the swallow.

"It is glorious," replied Mr. Thompson. "Oh, that I could always be a bird!"

"Humph!" replied the bird. "How would you like to have to build your house every spring, going and coming a hundred times a day with your mouth full of mud?"

"But the glorious feeling of freedom!" said Mr. Thompson.

"Oh yes," answered the swallow, sarcastically. "Come with me; I'll show you."

The two flew out of the barn, and after wheeling around for a few minutes, flew up to a large vane on top of the carriage-house. Mr. Thompson had often seen the swallows perched on this vane, twittering and fighting among themselves. This morning he had a feeling of elation at being there himself, and shook his wings proudly. Bang! whiz! the shot flew around him, and two of his companions fell fluttering to the ground. Just then he heard two boyish voices exclaim,

"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!"

Mr. Thompson followed the barn-swallow, too frightened to know where, for as he turned back he saw the hawk pounce upon an unfortunate bird, and bear it off in his claws.

When they reached the house again, the swallow said, "Well, do you think that the life of a bird is unalloyed pleasure?" Mr. Thompson paused for a moment, and the swallow continued: "First, there are the boys who steal the eggs, then they shoot at you; then there are the hawks, and the snakes, and the cats."

"Cats?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"Yes, cats!" screamed the swallow in alarm, fluttering away. Mr. Thompson was too late. He felt the sharp claws in his leg, and with a jump and a scream he awoke, to find himself sitting in the barn, with the big house cat standing beside him, and looking somewhat surprised at his sudden movement. Slowly Tabby lifted her paw, and putting it on Mr. Thompson's knee, stretched herself lazily. 'Lisha, who was feeding the horses, remarked: "Reckon it's goin' to rain; the swallers fly low, and it's a great sign of rain when a cat stretches like that."

Mr. Thompson walked slowly to the house, thinking that, after all, the bird's life was not all happiness.