THE SWALLOW’S FOURTH LETTER.MYDEARFRIEND,—I have been suffering for some days past from the effects of a slight accident which befell me on the road and compelled me to rest. In spite of regrets and impatience, I see no prospect of moving out of my narrow uncomfortable abode. Yet I ought to feel thankful for shelter of any kind. Overtaken some distance from my resting-place by a great storm, the wind drove me with such violence against a wall as to fracture my leg. Nothing surprises me more thanmy inability to proceed, the injury seems so trifling. A tribe of Sparrows, who, with characteristic foresight, established themselves before the bad weather set in beneath the roof which shelters me, have shown me great kindness. Unfortunately for me the sun soon reappeared, and his first rays have carried off my good-hearted hosts; even my helplessness had no power to detain them. I therefore suffer all the more, as I had given them credit for pure disinterested charity. What little they have left in the shape of food will soon be exhausted, and I am still too weak to forage for myself.It is at such a time as this, pressed by poverty and enfeebled by sickness, that all the true friendship I have enjoyed in life proves a real comfort to me. Now I feel the curse of solitude and the need of a partner’s care and affection.Although I might have weighed before starting the dangers of so long a journey, and accordingly felt neither surprise nor discouragement at this first mishap, I am certain that you, who dread everything which menaces the uniformity of your life, would have borne the affliction with greater patience and fortitude. You have accustomed yourself to abide contentedly in one spot, so that this enforced repose which galls me, had you been the sufferer, would have in no way ruffled the calm of your head and heart. We are differently constituted, so differently that this constraint will drive me mad if I have to endure it much longer.Oh how it affects my temper, and tunes my ear to a painful pitch of perfection! There is not a bird within hearing that does not sing false. My nearest neighbour is a Magpie, the stepmother of two little warblers, to whom she is a perfect tyrant, holding them in complete slavery, and taking pleasure in corrupting their natural tastes by making them sing all day long contralto airs unsuited to their voices.This female friend is a widow who receives no one, and who spends her days in scolding, an occupation which she varies by picking faults and feathers out of her step-children. I flatly refused the proposal she made through an old Crow, to replace her when she felt inclined to leave the nest in search of pleasure. This occurs chiefly in the evening. I think she is a person of very doubtful morality indeed. The offer was a tempting one, but I would rather starve than aid the dark schemes of this wicked female; for dark they must be, as she takes noone into her confidence save a blackguard-looking Crow who, I am certain, lives by plunder.So you see I not only have the misfortune to be, but to have made, a formidable enemy of this unscrupulous dame. I think I shall risk destroying my bad leg, and limp out of the dilemma into pastures new and an atmosphere more congenial.You whose goodness once drew me out of a like scrape, will pity my misfortunes and sigh for me more profoundly than I deserve. Still the thought of your kind interest will strengthen me nearly as much as if you were here to lend me a helping wing. I seem to feel as it were your guardian spirit hovering over my head; so real does it appear that I shall implicitly trust to its guidance. This you will set down as a morbid fad of mine, as your spirit knows better than to trust itself into such latitudes. Be that as it may, your influence, if not your spirit, is ever with me.
MYDEARFRIEND,—I have been suffering for some days past from the effects of a slight accident which befell me on the road and compelled me to rest. In spite of regrets and impatience, I see no prospect of moving out of my narrow uncomfortable abode. Yet I ought to feel thankful for shelter of any kind. Overtaken some distance from my resting-place by a great storm, the wind drove me with such violence against a wall as to fracture my leg. Nothing surprises me more thanmy inability to proceed, the injury seems so trifling. A tribe of Sparrows, who, with characteristic foresight, established themselves before the bad weather set in beneath the roof which shelters me, have shown me great kindness. Unfortunately for me the sun soon reappeared, and his first rays have carried off my good-hearted hosts; even my helplessness had no power to detain them. I therefore suffer all the more, as I had given them credit for pure disinterested charity. What little they have left in the shape of food will soon be exhausted, and I am still too weak to forage for myself.
It is at such a time as this, pressed by poverty and enfeebled by sickness, that all the true friendship I have enjoyed in life proves a real comfort to me. Now I feel the curse of solitude and the need of a partner’s care and affection.
Although I might have weighed before starting the dangers of so long a journey, and accordingly felt neither surprise nor discouragement at this first mishap, I am certain that you, who dread everything which menaces the uniformity of your life, would have borne the affliction with greater patience and fortitude. You have accustomed yourself to abide contentedly in one spot, so that this enforced repose which galls me, had you been the sufferer, would have in no way ruffled the calm of your head and heart. We are differently constituted, so differently that this constraint will drive me mad if I have to endure it much longer.
Oh how it affects my temper, and tunes my ear to a painful pitch of perfection! There is not a bird within hearing that does not sing false. My nearest neighbour is a Magpie, the stepmother of two little warblers, to whom she is a perfect tyrant, holding them in complete slavery, and taking pleasure in corrupting their natural tastes by making them sing all day long contralto airs unsuited to their voices.
This female friend is a widow who receives no one, and who spends her days in scolding, an occupation which she varies by picking faults and feathers out of her step-children. I flatly refused the proposal she made through an old Crow, to replace her when she felt inclined to leave the nest in search of pleasure. This occurs chiefly in the evening. I think she is a person of very doubtful morality indeed. The offer was a tempting one, but I would rather starve than aid the dark schemes of this wicked female; for dark they must be, as she takes noone into her confidence save a blackguard-looking Crow who, I am certain, lives by plunder.
So you see I not only have the misfortune to be, but to have made, a formidable enemy of this unscrupulous dame. I think I shall risk destroying my bad leg, and limp out of the dilemma into pastures new and an atmosphere more congenial.
You whose goodness once drew me out of a like scrape, will pity my misfortunes and sigh for me more profoundly than I deserve. Still the thought of your kind interest will strengthen me nearly as much as if you were here to lend me a helping wing. I seem to feel as it were your guardian spirit hovering over my head; so real does it appear that I shall implicitly trust to its guidance. This you will set down as a morbid fad of mine, as your spirit knows better than to trust itself into such latitudes. Be that as it may, your influence, if not your spirit, is ever with me.