THIRD LETTER FROM THE SWALLOW.A NEST OF ROBINS.I have by the merest chance fallen in with a friend, a most obliging creature, who will wait for this letter and deliver it to you. He is the bearer of important despatches, and appears worthy of the trust placed in him. While he explores the environs of my present halting-place, I hastily take up the pen to let you know my whereabouts, and to recount the events of my journey. Happily they are few and far between.As you do not seem to approve of female genius, I must make an effort to suppress the poetry that flows naturally from my pen. When I have finished a volume of inspired writing, you shall have a copy to study at leisure. Then, and not till then, shall I expect justice at your hands.I should have delayed writing, had circumstances not forced me to remind you of my existence.The day dawned under depressing auspices, which will account for the sad tone of this epistle. On arriving in this delightful neighbourhood, I made the acquaintance of a most agreeable family, consisting of a father, mother, and two little ones, the latter still under shelter of the maternal wings. As they had greeted my arrival with much grace and show of kindness, I thought it my duty, on waking this morning, to make a formal call at their nest. The manner in which I was received raised them tenfold in my estimation, but just as I had left them to return to my lodging, the air was suddenly filled with cries of distress. On wheeling round, I perceived that the situation was dreadful: one of the young brood had fallen to the ground in imprudently trying his wings; although the fall was not great, danger was none the less imminent. An enormous bird of prey, after swooping through the air in ominous circles, descended like a stone, straight to the scene of the disaster. The mother’s resolution was soon taken; addressing a few words to her husband touching the care of those she was leaving behind, and casting a fond look on the loved ones, she descended to the ground. There, showing a bold front to the enemy, she covered her little one with her wings; but the dread foe kept slowly approaching, and at last quickened his pace, trusting to the immobility of his victim for an easy victory. The poor motherunflinchingly met her doom; for the fierce bird, with eyes of fire, pounced down upon her and carried her away, leaving the little one unharmed on the ground. After a moment’s silence, the fatherdescended and bore from the sad spot all that had been left by the bird of prey. I laid the little one in the hollow of the nest and took the vacant place of the mother. My sympathy rendered me speechless, while the father was mute with grief, he whose breast but a moment before had been bursting with joyous song. Suddenly a dull noise sounded near, our heads turned to the quarter whence a new danger seemed to threaten us. Imagine our joy when, in place of danger, we beheld our oppressor felled to the earth by an unseen hand, and the lost one returning safe to the nest. The delight of thus meeting one whom we thought dead filled all our hearts, and caused us to feel as one in happiness.Yet I feared the indiscretion of remaining too long to share their joy, and had just retired when a huge animal, one of the species inhabiting towns called Poacher, whistling gaily, approached the tree which sheltered the Robins. On his back he carried a bag, from which the head of their enemy hung out, and on his shoulder the instrument that delivered them. The poor mother could not restrain a cry of joy on recognising her dead foe. It was a cry that might have moved a heart of stone, but brutes, it is said, have no hearts.“Oh! oh!” cried the Poacher, “you sing sweetly, your song is most agreeable, but I would prefer the sound of you roasting on the spit. The little ones would not be worth eating, still one must be careful not to separate what God has united.”After these words, he brought down my friends and consigned them to his bag. That is the reason of my sadness.
I have by the merest chance fallen in with a friend, a most obliging creature, who will wait for this letter and deliver it to you. He is the bearer of important despatches, and appears worthy of the trust placed in him. While he explores the environs of my present halting-place, I hastily take up the pen to let you know my whereabouts, and to recount the events of my journey. Happily they are few and far between.
As you do not seem to approve of female genius, I must make an effort to suppress the poetry that flows naturally from my pen. When I have finished a volume of inspired writing, you shall have a copy to study at leisure. Then, and not till then, shall I expect justice at your hands.
I should have delayed writing, had circumstances not forced me to remind you of my existence.
The day dawned under depressing auspices, which will account for the sad tone of this epistle. On arriving in this delightful neighbourhood, I made the acquaintance of a most agreeable family, consisting of a father, mother, and two little ones, the latter still under shelter of the maternal wings. As they had greeted my arrival with much grace and show of kindness, I thought it my duty, on waking this morning, to make a formal call at their nest. The manner in which I was received raised them tenfold in my estimation, but just as I had left them to return to my lodging, the air was suddenly filled with cries of distress. On wheeling round, I perceived that the situation was dreadful: one of the young brood had fallen to the ground in imprudently trying his wings; although the fall was not great, danger was none the less imminent. An enormous bird of prey, after swooping through the air in ominous circles, descended like a stone, straight to the scene of the disaster. The mother’s resolution was soon taken; addressing a few words to her husband touching the care of those she was leaving behind, and casting a fond look on the loved ones, she descended to the ground. There, showing a bold front to the enemy, she covered her little one with her wings; but the dread foe kept slowly approaching, and at last quickened his pace, trusting to the immobility of his victim for an easy victory. The poor motherunflinchingly met her doom; for the fierce bird, with eyes of fire, pounced down upon her and carried her away, leaving the little one unharmed on the ground. After a moment’s silence, the fatherdescended and bore from the sad spot all that had been left by the bird of prey. I laid the little one in the hollow of the nest and took the vacant place of the mother. My sympathy rendered me speechless, while the father was mute with grief, he whose breast but a moment before had been bursting with joyous song. Suddenly a dull noise sounded near, our heads turned to the quarter whence a new danger seemed to threaten us. Imagine our joy when, in place of danger, we beheld our oppressor felled to the earth by an unseen hand, and the lost one returning safe to the nest. The delight of thus meeting one whom we thought dead filled all our hearts, and caused us to feel as one in happiness.
Yet I feared the indiscretion of remaining too long to share their joy, and had just retired when a huge animal, one of the species inhabiting towns called Poacher, whistling gaily, approached the tree which sheltered the Robins. On his back he carried a bag, from which the head of their enemy hung out, and on his shoulder the instrument that delivered them. The poor mother could not restrain a cry of joy on recognising her dead foe. It was a cry that might have moved a heart of stone, but brutes, it is said, have no hearts.
“Oh! oh!” cried the Poacher, “you sing sweetly, your song is most agreeable, but I would prefer the sound of you roasting on the spit. The little ones would not be worth eating, still one must be careful not to separate what God has united.”
After these words, he brought down my friends and consigned them to his bag. That is the reason of my sadness.