"They seem to be contented enough with their lot," he said to himself, "and I suppose it is all right for them. But this miserable life of mine does not satisfy me!"
So he flew home in the sulks, and settled himself again on the ridge of the roof.
"Oh, I know what I will do," he cried suddenly. "I will creep into the swallow's nest and sleep there to-night, then I can dream that I am a swallow."
And he did so, and dreamt all night that he was flying over hill and dale, over land and sea, all the way to Italy. He thought he was so light, so free, and his wings carried him as straight as an arrow through the air. It was the most delightful dream he had ever had.
After this he crept every evening into the swallow's nest, and lay there till ever so late in the morning. When he came out, he sat crunched up on the ridge of the roof or in the bare lime tree. If the gardener's wife had not thrown out some crumbs to him now and then, he would certainly have starved to death. For he didn't care a rap about anything; he merely longed for the evening to come, so that he could dream again. Every evening he dreamt the same thing, but he never grew tired of it.
"This is nearly as good as actually going with them," he thought. "If only I could dream in the daytime in the same way."
But in time his head got quite muddled, and he paid no attention to anything.
Little by little the winter was slipping away, and now it was gone altogether. The days grew longer, and there was more warmth in the sunshine.