THE DESERTED HOUSE.
HIS house has no roof, no chimney, no windows, no front-door, no back-door. Yet it was once the home of a happy family; and, if you went near it, you would hear their sweet low voices from morning till night. Such was this little house when I visited it one fine day last summer.
To-day I called again. All was still. Not a voice did I hear. The roofless house was filled with snow. The walls looked dark and sad. The leaves that once cast lovely shadows about them were gone.
As I stood looking at the empty house, Ethel, who is very young but very wise, exclaimed, "The family have gone south for the winter, but are sure to come back in the spring. There will be gay times here pretty soon."
Just then a sharp gust of wind came, and the old house shook as if about to fall. Ethel stood ready to catch it.
What, a child catch a falling house, as if it were a baseball! What if the timbers should strike her? Ah! but this house was a very light building. Snow and all, it was not much heavier than a handful of roses.
Now you know what I mean. Vine Street runs from the floor to the top of the piazza. The swallow homestead is just at the head of that street. The timbers are sticks and straw. The roof is the sky. And, as to the happy little family of Mr. and Mrs. Swallow, if you come here in the month of May, I will show them to you in their home.
GEORGE T. PACKARD.
