Part 19

MIGRATIONS: CONTINUED.

THE SWALLOW.

Undoubtedly the swallow has seized upon our dwellings without ceremony; she lodges under our windows, under our eaves, in our chimneys. She does not hold us in the slightest fear.

It might have been said that she trusted to her unrivalled wing, had she not placed her nest and her children within our reach. The true reason why she has become the mistress of our house is, that she has taken possession not only of our house, but of our heart.

In the rural mansion where my father-in-law educated his children, he would hold his class during summer in a greenhouse in which the swallows rested without disturbing themselves about the movements of the family, quite unconstrained in their behaviour, wholly occupied with their brood, passing out at the windows and returning through the roof, chattering very loudly with one another, and still more loudly when the master would make a pretence of saying, as St. Francis said, "Sister swallows, can you not be silent?"

Theirs is the hearth. Where the mother has built her nest, the daughter and the grand-daughter build. They return there every year; their generations succeed to it more regularly than do our own. A family dies out or is dispersed, the mansion passes into other hands; but the swallow constantly returns to it, and maintains its right of occupation.

It is thus that our traveller has come to be accepted as a symbol of the permanency of home. She clings to it with such fidelity, that though the house may be repaired, or partially demolished, or long disturbed by masons, it is still retaken possession of, re-occupied by these faithful birds of persevering memory.

She is the bird of return. And if I bestow this title upon her, it is not alone on account of her annual return, but on account of her general conduct, and the direction of her flight, so varied, yet nevertheless circular, and always returning upon itself.

She incessantly wheels and veers, indefatigably hovers about the same area and the same locality, describing an infinity of graceful curves, which, however varied, are never far distant from one another. Is it to pursue her prey, the gnat which dances and floats in the air? Is it to exercise her power, her unwearying wing, without going too far from her nest? It matters not; this revolving flight, this incessantly returning movement, has always attracted our eyes and heart, throwing us into a reverie, into a world of thought.

We see her flight clearly, but never, or scarcely ever, her little black face. Who, then, art thou, thou who always concealest thyself, who never showest me aught but thy trenchant wings--scythes rapid as that of Time? But Time goes forward without pause; thou, thou always returnest. Thou drawest close to my side; it seems as if thou wouldst graze me, wouldst touch me?--So nearly dost thou caress me, that I feel in my face the wind, almost the whirr of thy wings. Is it a bird? Is it a spirit? Ah, if thou art a soul, tell me so frankly, and reveal to me the barrier which separates the living from the dead.

But let us not anticipate, nor let loose the waters of bitterness. Rather let us trace this bird in the people's thoughts, in the good old popular wisdom, close akin, undoubtedly, to the wisdom of Nature.

The people have seen in her only the natural dial, the division of the seasons, of the two great hours of the year. At Easter and at Michaelmas, at the epochs of family gatherings, of fairs and markets, of leases and rent-paying, the black and white swallow appears, and tells us the time. She comes to separate and define the past and the coming seasons. At these epochs families and friends meet together, but not always to find the circle complete; in the last six months this friend has disappeared, and that. The swallow returns, but not for all; many have gone a very long journey, longer than the tour of France. To Germany? No; further, further still.

Our companions, industrious travellers, followed the swallow's life, except that on their return they frequently could no longer find their nest. Of this the pendant bird warns them in an old German saying, wherein the narrow popular wisdom would fain retain them round the roof-tree of home. On this proverb, the great poet Rückert, metamorphosing himself into a swallow, reproducing her rhythmical and circular flight, her constant turns and returns, has founded a lyric at which many will laugh, but more than one will weep:--

"De la jeunesse, de la jeunesse, Un chant me revient toujours-- Oh! que c'est loin! Oh! que c'est loin Tout ce qui fut autrefois;

"Ce que chantait, ce que chantait Celle qui ramène le printemps, Rasant le village de l'aile, rasant le village de l'aile. Est-ce bien ce qu'elle chante encore?

"'Quand je partis, quand je partis, Etaient pleins l'armoire et le coffre. Quand je revins, quand je revins, Je ne trouvai plus que le vide.'

"O mon foyer de famille, Laisse-moi seulement une fois M'asseoir à la place sacrée Et m'envoler dans les songes!

"Elle revient bien l'hirondelle, Et l'armoire vidée se remplit. Mais le vide du coeur reste, mais reste le vide du coeur, Et rien ne le remplira.

"Elle rase pourtant le village, Elle chante comme autrefois-- 'Quand je partis, quand je partis, Coffre, armoire, tout était plein. Quand je revins, quand je revins Je ne trouvai plus que le vide.'"

Imitated:--

From childhood gay, from childhood gay, E'er breathes to me a strain, How far the day, how far the day Which ne'er may come again!

And is her song, and is her song-- She who brings back the spring, The hamlet touching with her wing, the hamlet touching with her wing-- Is it true what she doth sing?

"When I set forth, when I set forth, Both barn and chest were brimming o'er; When I came back, when I came back, I found a piteous lack of store."

Oh, my own home, so dearly loved, Kind Heaven grant that I may kneel Again upon thy sacred hearth, While dreams the happy past reveal!

The swallow surely will return, Coffer and barn will brim once more; But blank remains the heart, empty the heart remains, And none may the lost restore!

The swallow skims through the hamlet, She sings as she sang of yore:-- "When I set out, when I set out, Both barn and chest were brimming o'er; When I came back, when I came back, I found a piteous lack of store."

The swallow, caught in the morning, and closely examined, is seen to be a strange and ugly bird, we confess; but this fact perfectly well agrees with what is, par excellence, the bird--the being among all beings born for flight. To this object Nature has sacrificed everything; she has laughed at form, thinking only of movement; and has succeeded so well that this bird, ugly in repose, is, when flying, the most beautiful of all.

Scythe-like wings; projecting eyes; no neck (in order to treble her strength); feet, scarcely any, or none: all is wing. These are her great general features. Add a very large beak, always open, which, in flight, snaps at its prey without stopping, closes, and again re-opens. Thus she feeds while flying; she drinks, she bathes while flying; while flying, she feeds her young.