AS I am nothing of an ornithologist, any small outdoor bird with forked tail and black and white plumage may pass with me as a swallow or as a martin. When mud nests are not in sight, then it becomes a swallow.
Once at the seaside I recollect noticing for some time a row of swallows perched side by side along a telegraph wire. There they sat steadily. After a while, when some one looked again, they were gone.
This happened so late in the year as to suggest that the birds had mustered for migration and then had started.
The sight was quaint, comfortable looking, pretty. The small creatures seemed so fit and so ready to launch out on their pathless journey: contented to wait, contented to start, at peace and fearless.
Altogether they formed an apt emblem of souls willing to stay, willing to depart.
Only I fear there are not so many "willing" souls as "willing" swallows.