and told us to listen at the chimney. A rasping twitter came from within.
"It must be those chimney swallows," guessed the boy.
He stepped upon a chair and took off the chimney cap. There, scrambling around in soot, were some black looking birds.
"One, two, three, four," he counted, as he reached in and handed them out on a newspaper.
Three were young birds, and one was an adult bird with long wings. Their nest was also there. The heavy rain had loosened it and made it fall.
The little ones screeched in chorus, and tried constantly to get hold of something with their claws. The older bird gave no sound at all. She seemed to be hurt. We called her the mother.
The lady looked at their little nest. Then she went and fetched a basket, and, as soon as the birds were removed to it, they began to clamber up the sides. When they got to the top, where they could hang at full length, they stopped their screeching. Only now and then they still gave a rasping sound. Perhaps they were hungry, and scolded because nobody brought them any food. Some crossed over the rim of the basket and tried the other side.
I stayed there the rest of the afternoon. Every ten or fifteen minutes the little birds gave a call, like, "Gitse gitse." Thinking that they must be almost choked with the soot, I tried to give them
