e stripe on the under
side, a rich buff vest, and a deep blue collar, all of the finest
feathers. He loved the young Swallow whom he was following, and he
wanted to tell her so.

"There is the nest where I was hatched," she said. "Would you think I
was ever crowded in there with five brothers and sisters? It was a
comfortable nest, too, before the winter winds and snow wore it away. I
wonder how it would seem to be a fledgling again?" She snuggled down in
the old nest until he could see only her forked tail and her dainty head
over the edge. Her vest was quite hidden, and the only light feathers
that showed were the reddish-buff ones on throat and face; these were
not so bright as his, but still she was beautiful to him. He loved every
feather on her body.

"I don't want you to be a fledgling again," he cried. "I want you to
help me make a home under the eaves, a lovely little nest of mud and
straw, where you can rest as you are now doing, while I bring food to
you. Will you?"

"Yes," she cried. "Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee! Oh, tittle-ittle-ittle-ee!"
And she flew far up into the blue sky, while he followed her,
twittering and singing.

"Where are those young people going?" said an older Swallow. "I should
think they had flown far enough for to-day without circling around for
the fun of it."

"Don't you remember the days when you were young?" said the Swallow next
to him.

"When I was young?" he answered. "My dear, I am young now. I shall
always be young in the springtime. I shall never be old except when I am
moulting."

Just then a family of Doves came pattering over the roof, swaying their
heads at every step. "We are so glad to see you back," said the father.
"We had a long, cold winter, and we thought often of you."

"A very cold winter," cooed his plump little wife.

"Tell me a story," said a young Dove, their son.

"Hush, hush," said the Father Dove. "This is our son," he added, "and
this is his sister. We think them quite a pair. Our last brood, you
know."

"Tell us a story," said the young Dove again.

"Hush, dear. You mustn't tease the Swallow," said his mother. "They are
so fond of stories," she cooed, "and they have heard that your family
are great travellers."

"But I want him to tell us a story," said the young Dove. "I think he
might."

This made the Swallow feel very uncomfortable, for he could see that the
children had been badly brought up, and he did not want to tell a story
just then.