Then she wondered if the sun loved the brook, for it shook with silvery flashes, and sang a sweet song where it ran into an eddy just by her feet. She was always wondering things. She turned on her back and tried to see a lark in the sky. It was so warm lying there in the sun, and the bees from her Great-uncle Sufford’s hives went over to the clover fields. So warm, and the tiny brook-song so sweet, that her eyes closed. Still the water murmuring softly and the lovely summer sun kissing her. She wondered dreamily if you felt like that when you were in heaven: then remembered that she was ugly and with a small sigh fell asleep.
A swallow flew low over the water, dipping his chestnut breast in the stream. Immediately Jo sat up and clapped her hands.
“Swallow, swallow,” she cried, “how little you are!”
“Am I, my love?” twittered the bird, circling over her head.
“Your wings are so blue, little swallow.”
The bird dived from above and perched at the edge of the brook. Jo could see his slim wings folded over his tail. He took one dainty sip, and then sped, light as a spider’s thread, into the air.
“Come back, little swallow,” she called, “come and perch on my finger. Unless you are afraid,” she added wistfully.
“I will come,” said the swallow. She could feel the tiny claws just touching her fingers.
“We are not afraid of you, my love,” he twittered, “we know that you would not hurt us.”
“Who told you?” she asked in wonder.