THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOW.

When we say that "one swallow does not make a Summer," it matters little whether the reference is to the town swallow or the country swallow-to the Hirundo urbica or the Hirundo rustica of Linnæus. The latter is properly the swallow, the former the martin or martlet. The swift (Cypselus murarius), the largest of the swallow tribe that visits our islands, arrives the latest and departs the earliest, appearing about the middle or latter part of April, and retiring southward early in August. Hence it rears only one brood with us, whereas the other swallows breed generally twice.

There are few village steeples round which these birds may not be observed during the calm evenings of June or July, dashing and wheeling with surprising velocity, uttering loud and piercing screams of exultation; their address and dexterity on the wing are indeed almost beyond conception. On the wing they collect not only their food, but the materials with which they construct their artless nest; such as dried grass, feathers, silk or linen threads, pieces of muslin, and the like these are no doubt partly taken by force from the nests of sparrows, which are abundant in old towers and steeples, but also skimmed from off the surface of the ground; though the swift is seldom observed, like the swallow or martin, to maintain a long low flight, but in general sails in upper air. The nest is placed in a hole or crevice of the masonry, and thus in darkness the female lays her eggs, which are only two in number, white in colour, and a long oval in shape, and rears with great assiduity her young. "When the hen," says White,

of Selborne, "has sat hard all day, she rushes forth just as it is almost dark, and stretches and relieves her weary limbs, and snatches a scanty meal for a few minutes, and then returns to her duty of incubation."

The active existence of the swift is passed entirely in the air on the wing; it never settles, except during the few dark hours of a Summer's night, and that only to repose. "It is," says the writer just referred to, "a most alert bird, and is on the wing in the height of Summer at least sixteen hours. In the longest days, it does not withdraw to rest till a quarter before nine in the evening, being the latest of all birds. Just before they retire, whole groups of them assemble high in the air, and squeak and shout about with wonderful rapidity. But this bird is never so much alive as in sultry thundering weather, when it expresses great alacrity, and calls forth all its powers. In hot mornings, several getting together in little parties dash round the steeples and churches, squeaking as they go in a very clamorous

manner. These by nice observers are supposed to be the males serenading their sitting hens; and not without reason, since they seldom squeak till they come close to the walls or eaves, and since those within utter at the same time a little inward note of complacency."

The flight of the swallow is generally low, but distinguished by great rapidity and sudden turns and evolutions, executed as if by magic. Over fields and meadows, and the surface of pools and sheets of water, all the day may this fleet unwearied bird be seen skimming along, and describing in its oft-repeated circuit the most intricate mazes. The surface of the water is indeed its delight; its insect food is there in great profusion; and it is beautiful to observe with what address it dips and emerges, shaking the spray from its burnished plumage, as, hardly interrupted by the plunge, it continues its career. Thus it feeds, and drinks, and bathes upon the wing.

The propensity which these birds, in common with their family, exhibit to return to the same spot, and to build in the same chimney or barn year after year, is one of the most curious parts of their history. During their sojourn in foreign climes, they forget not their old home, but as soon as their instinct warns them to retrace their pilgrimage, back they hasten, and, as experiments have repeatedly proved, the identical pair that built last Summer in the barn again take up their old quarters.

It is delightful to witness the care which the swallow manifests towards her brood. When able to leave the nest, she leads them to the ridge of the housetop, where, settled in a row, and as yet unable to fly, she feeds them with great assiduity. In a day or two they become capable of flight, and then they follow their parents in all their evolutions, and are fed by them while on the wing; in a short time they commence an independent career.

The notes of the swallow, though hurried and twittering, are very pleasing; and the more SO as they are associated in our minds with ideas of Spring, and calm serenity, and rural pleasures. The time in which the bird pours forth its melody is chiefly at sunrise, when, in "token of a goodly day," his rays are bright and warm.

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,"

unite alike to call man from his couch of rest, to praise "the God of seasons as they roll."

CONSIDER THE LILIES.

ULTITUDES of texts there are which have a very deep interest belonging to them in the records of religious biography. One text has comforted a sufferer in great sorrow; another has suddenly arrested a careless man, when on the eve of some great sin; another has pierced through a man's spirit, like a two-edged sword, convincing him of sin and leading him to a knowledge of the truth.

It may be that there is not a single text in the Bible that may not have some kind of personal history belonging to it. I have heard of a man being changed by a single expression lighting on his ear, "And he died." I do not remember any personal history attaching itself to these words about the lilies, but for all that I feel quite certain that there are many thousands of affecting incidents belonging to them, if we only knew them. I know at least that they have

comforted and sustained my own heart.

I

Then, again, there is a literary history belonging to texts. think of famous sermons which have been preached on them, books written about them, arguments and illustrations which they have furnished to the minds of our national writers. There are various examples in reference to our Saviour's words concerning the lilies, of which I may give a few. First of all, there occurs to my recollection Keble's exquisite poem for the fifteenth Sunday after Trinity; a poem which, to my mind, is the perfection of religious poetry, combining as it does the loftiest teaching, argumentative thought, and exquisite melody of expression. The poem is so well known that I dare only quote the last two verses.

"Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,

As when He paused and owned you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renewed.

What care ye now, if Winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.

"Alas! of thousand bosoms kind

That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
'Live for to-day!' to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares will bring to sight.
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless."

Then think again of a passage in Burns's "Cottar's Saturday Night," surely the most exquisite of all the poems of Burns; and never may the race of the honest pious cottar die out! though at times, I am told, sorely threatened in these our days. He has described the scene, so simple, and always so beautiful in its simplicity, when the lowly cottar at the close of day gathers his household around him for prayers.

"Then homeward all take off their several way;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest;

The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flaming pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide;

But chiefly in their hearts will grace divine provide."

Alas, for Burns! it had been well for him if he had been able to realize the meaning of his own beautiful lines. Then for some prose to commingle with this verse, I think of a fine passage in one of the sermons of the late James Shergold Boone. Mr. Boone was for some time. incumbent of one of the Paddington churches, a man remarkable in his day as a scholar and a preacher; and a volume of his sermons which he published some years before his too early death by consumption, gives us some good examples of his thoughtful eloquence. "All is changed, illumined, endeared, hallowed, as we recognise an Omniscient Will loving us, caring for us, making continual provision for our sustentation, use and