The Sparrow ruffled his feathers, and pecked at them, as if half expecting to find the repartee there; but not succeeding, he was just about to fly at the Swallow and drive her from her perch, when lo! a little maiden of seven years old came running and dancing into the orchard, and made for the very tree on which the birds were perching. The Blackbird went off instantly with a loud cackle; the Sparrow chattered excitedly and went off too; the Robin departed very quietly to another part of the orchard; and the Starling, Chaffinch, and others made off as fast as they could go. Only the Swallow and the Wren were left; neither of them were a bit frightened. “Now by the salt wave of the Mediterranean, which I have so often crossed,” said the Swallow, “I am glad we were spared that repartee.” “Now by the sweet juices of a green caterpillar, which I have so often sucked,” said the Wren, “I am glad we have come to the end of this folly. Good-night; the sun has set. There’s a bat; I really must get home.” The Swallow was left alone. “Well,” said she to herself, “once is enough; I’ll not ask them to have another debate. I’m glad I didn’t hear the speeches. We swallows trust in man, and he loves us; but we cannot understand him, nor he us. But we live all our lives by love and trust,” said she, as she opened her wings to fly; “as for understanding, that must wait.” She was gone, and the orchard was silent again. A TRAGEDY IN ROOK-LIFE It was a fine day early in February, and the rooks, after roosting on the elm-trees in the village, and surveying the remnants of the nests of last year, were assembled, some on the moist pastures, some on the ploughed land, hard at work searching for grubs and worms. The bachelor rooks were also looking out for partners, and some of them were already settled in life--for that season at least. There was a certain young bachelor among them who had not as yet won his way to the heart of any black maiden. Jetsom had certain ways about him that were looked on with suspicion by his fellows. His father and mother had had some doubt whether they ought to bring him up. His very egg had been unlike the others in the nest; it was longer and narrower, and not so thickly covered with dark spots. It was clearly an ill-omened egg. A one-eyed old rook, famed for wisdom and foresight, had been consulted about it, and was of opinion that no good would come of it. He sat on the edge of the nest, and turned his battered old bill this way and that, uttering now and then a hoarse inward caw. “I remember,” said he at last, “an egg exactly like this; it was the year the new allotments were made, long before you two were born. It was a lucky year in that way, for those allotments are a great blessing to us all, though you young folks don’t value them as you ought. But let me tell you (and here he ruffled his feathers, and made a dab with his bill at the unlucky egg), the chick from that egg became a scare-crow on those allotments!”