I am chary nowadays of offering counsel in connection with subjects concerning which I am not and cannot be an authority. Long ago I once took upon myself to write a paper about babies. It did not aim to be a textbook on the subject. It did not even claim to exhaust the topic. I was willing that others, coming after me, should continue the argument—that is if, upon reflection, they were still of opinion there was anything more to be said. I was pleased with the article. I went out of my way to obtain an early copy of the magazine in which it appeared, on purpose to show it to a lady friend of mine. She was the possessor of one or two babies of her own, specimens in no way remarkable, though she herself, as was natural enough, did her best to boom them. I thought it might be helpful to her: the views and observations, not of a rival fancier, who would be prejudiced, but of an intelligent amateur. I put the magazine into her hands, opened at the proper place.

“Read it through carefully and quietly,” I said; “don’t let anything distract you. Have a pencil and a bit of paper ready at your side, and note down any points upon which you would like further information. If there is anything you think I have missed out let me know. It may be that here and there you will be disagreeing with me. If so, do not hesitate to mention it, I shall not be angry. If a demand arises I shall very likely issue an enlarged and improved edition of this paper in the form of a pamphlet, in which case hints and suggestions that to you may appear almost impertinent will be of distinct help to me.”

“I haven’t got a pencil,” she said; “what’s it all about?”

“It’s about babies,” I explained, and I lent her a pencil.

That is another thing I have learnt. Never lend a pencil to a woman if you ever want to see it again. She has three answers to your request for its return. The first, that she gave it back to you and that you put it in your pocket, and that it’s there now, and that if it isn’t it ought to be. The second, that you never lent it to her. The third, that she wishes people would not lend her pencils and then clamour for them back, just when she has something else far more important to think about.

“What do you know about babies?” she demanded.

“If you will read the paper,” I replied, “you will see for yourself. It’s all there.”

She flicked over the pages contemptuously.

“There doesn’t seem much of it?” she retorted.

“It is condensed,” I pointed out to her.

“I am glad it is short. All right, I’ll read it,” she agreed.

I thought my presence might disturb her, so went out into the garden. I wanted her to get the full benefit of it. I crept back now and again to peep through the open window. She did not seem to be making many notes. But I heard her making little noises to herself. When I saw she had reached the last page, I re-entered the room.

“Well?” I said.

“Is it meant to be funny,” she demanded, “or is it intended to be taken seriously?”

“There may be flashes of humour here and there—”

She did not wait for me to finish.

“Because if it’s meant to be funny,” she said, “I don’t think it is at all funny. And if it is intended to be serious, there’s one thing very clear, and that is that you are not a mother.”

With the unerring instinct of the born critic she had divined my one weak point. Other objections raised against me I could have met. But that one stinging reproach was unanswerable. It has made me, as I have explained, chary of tendering advice on matters outside my own department of life. Otherwise, every year, about Valentine’s day, there is much that I should like to say to my good friends the birds. I want to put it to them seriously. Is not the month of February just a little too early? Of course, their answer would be the same as in the case of my motherly friend.

“Oh, what do you know about it? you are not a bird.”

I know I am not a bird, but that is the very reason why they should listen to me. I bring a fresh mind to bear upon the subject. I am not tied down by bird convention. February, my dear friends—in these northern climes of ours at all events—is much too early. You have to build in a high wind, and nothing, believe me, tries a lady’s temper more than being blown about. Nature is nature, and womenfolk, my dear sirs, are the same all the world over, whether they be birds or whether they be human. I am an older person than most of you, and I speak with the weight of experience.

If I were going to build a house with my wife, I should not choose a season of the year when the bricks and planks and things were liable to be torn out of her hand, her skirts blown over her head, and she left clinging for dear life to a scaffolding pole. I know the feminine biped and, you take it from me, that is not her notion of a honeymoon. In April or May, the sun shining, the air balmy—when, after carrying up to her a load or two of bricks, and a hod or two of mortar, we could knock off work for a few minutes without fear of the whole house being swept away into the next street—could sit side by side on the top of a wall, our legs dangling down, and peck and morsel together; after which I could whistle a bit to her—then housebuilding might be a pleasure.

The swallows are wisest; June is their idea, and a very good idea, too. In a mountain village in the Tyrol, early one summer, I had the opportunity of watching very closely the building of a swallow’s nest. After coffee, the first morning, I stepped out from the great, cool, dark passage of the wirtschaft into the blazing sunlight, and, for no particular reason, pulled-to the massive door behind me. While filling my pipe, a swallow almost brushed by me, then wheeled round again, and took up a position on the fence only a few yards from me. He was carrying what to him was an exceptionally large and heavy brick. He put it down beside him on the fence, and called out something which I could not understand. I did not move. He got quite excited and said some more. It was undoubtable he was addressing me—nobody else was by. I judged from his tone that he was getting cross with me. At this point my travelling companion, his toilet unfinished, put his head out of the window just above me.

“Such an odd thing,” he called down to me. “I never noticed it last night. A pair of swallows are building a nest here in the hall. You’ve got to be careful you don’t mistake it for a hat-peg. The old lady says they have built there regularly for the last three years.”

Then it came to me what it was the gentleman had been saying to me: “I say, sir, you with the bit of wood in your mouth, you have been and shut the door and I can’t get in.”

Now, with the key in my possession, it was so clear and understandable, I really forgot for the moment he was only a bird.

“I beg your pardon,” I replied, “I had no idea. Such an extraordinary place to build a nest.”

I opened the door for him, and, taking up his brick again, he entered, and I followed him in. There was a deal of talk.

“He shut the door,” I heard him say, “Chap there, sucking the bit of wood. Thought I was never going to get in.”

“I know,” was the answer; “it has been so dark in here, if you’ll believe me, I’ve hardly been able to see what I’ve been doing.”

“Fine brick, isn’t it? Where will you have it?”

Observing me sitting there, they lowered their voices. Evidently she wanted him to put the brick down and leave her to think. She was not quite sure where she would have it. He, on the other hand, was sure he had found the right place for it. He pointed it out to her and explained his views. Other birds quarrel a good deal during nest building, but swallows are the gentlest of little people. She let him put it where he wanted to, and he kissed her and ran out. She cocked her eye after him, watched till he was out of sight, then deftly and quickly slipped it out and fixed it the other side of the door.

“Poor dears” (I could see it in the toss of her head); “they will think they know best; it is just as well not to argue with them.”

Every summer I suffer much from indignation. I love to watch the swallows building. They build beneath the eaves outside my study window. Such cheerful little chatter-boxes they are. Long after sunset, when all the other birds are sleeping, the swallows still are chattering softly. It sounds as if they were telling one another some pretty story, and often I am sure there must be humour in it, for every now and then one hears a little twittering laugh. I delight in having them there, so close to me. The fancy comes to me that one day, when my brain has grown more cunning, I, too, listening in the twilight, shall hear the stories that they tell.

One or two phrases already I have come to understand: “Once upon a time”—“Long, long ago”—“In a strange, far-off land.” I hear these words so constantly, I am sure I have them right. I call it “Swallow Street,” this row of six or seven nests. Two or three, like villas in their own grounds, stand alone, and others are semi-detached. It makes me angry that the sparrows will come and steal them. The sparrows will hang about deliberately waiting for a pair of swallows to finish their nest, and then, with a brutal laugh that makes my blood boil, drive the swallows away and take possession of it. And the swallows are so wonderfully patient.

“Never mind, old girl,” says Tommy Swallow, after the first big cry is over, to Jenny Swallow, “let’s try again.”

And half an hour later, full of fresh plans, they are choosing another likely site, chattering cheerfully once more. I watched the building of a particular nest for nearly a fortnight one year; and when, after two or three days’ absence, I returned and found a pair of sparrows comfortably encsonced therein, I just felt mad. I saw Mrs. Sparrow looking out. Maybe my anger was working upon my imagination, but it seemed to me that she nodded to me:

“Nice little house, ain’t it? What I call well built.”

Mr. Sparrow then flew up with a gaudy feather, dyed blue, which belonged to me. I recognised it. It had come out of the brush with which the girl breaks the china ornaments in our drawing-room. At any other time I should have been glad to see him flying off with the whole thing, handle included. But now I felt the theft of that one feather as an added injury. Mrs. Sparrow chirped with delight at sight of the gaudy monstrosity. Having got the house cheap, they were going to spend their small amount of energy upon internal decoration. That was their idea clearly, a “Liberty interior.” She looked more like a Cockney sparrow than a country one—had been born and bred in Regent Street, no doubt.

“There is not much justice in this world,” said I to myself; “but there’s going to be some introduced into this business—that is, if I can find a ladder.”

I did find a ladder, and fortunately it was long enough. Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow were out when I arrived, possibly on the hunt for cheap photo frames and Japanese fans. I did not want to make a mess. I removed the house neatly into a dust-pan, and wiped the street clear of every trace of it. I had just put back the ladder when Mrs. Sparrow returned with a piece of pink cotton-wool in her mouth. That was her idea of a colour scheme: apple-blossom pink and Reckitt’s blue side by side. She dropped her wool and sat on the waterspout, and tried to understand things.

“Number one, number two, number four; where the blazes”—sparrows are essentially common, and the women are as bad as the men—“is number three?”

Mr. Sparrow came up from behind, over the roof. He was carrying a piece of yellow-fluff, part of a lamp-shade, as far as I could judge.

“Move yourself,” he said, “what’s the sense of sitting there in the rain?”

“I went out just for a moment,” replied Mrs. Sparrow; “I could not have been gone, no, not a couple of minutes. When I came back—”

“Oh, get indoors,” said Mr. Sparrow, “talk about it there.”

“It’s what I’m telling you,” continued Mrs. Sparrow, “if you would only listen. There isn’t any door, there isn’t any house—”

“Isn’t any—” Mr. Sparrow, holding on to the rim of the spout, turned himself topsy-turvy and surveyed the street. From where I was standing behind the laurel bushes I could see nothing but his back.

He stood up again, looking angry and flushed.

“What have you done with the house? Can’t I turn my back a minute—”

“I ain’t done nothing with it. As I keep on telling you, I had only just gone—”

“Oh, bother where you had gone. Where’s the darned house gone? that’s what I want to know.”

They looked at one another. If ever astonishment was expressed in the attitude of a bird it was told by the tails of those two sparrows. They whispered wickedly together. The idea occurred to them that by force or cunning they might perhaps obtain possession of one of the other nests. But all the other nests were occupied, and even gentle Jenny Swallow, once in her own home with the children round about her, is not to be trifled with. Mr. Sparrow called at number two, put his head in at the door, and then returned to the waterspout.

“Lady says we don’t live there,” he explained to Mrs. Sparrow. There was silence for a while.

“Not what I call a classy street,” commented Mrs. Sparrow.

“If it were not for that terrible tired feeling of mine,” said Mr. Sparrow, “blame if I wouldn’t build a house of my own.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “—I have heard it said that a little bit of work, now and then, does you good.”

“All sorts of wild ideas about in the air nowadays,” said Mr. Sparrow, “it don’t do to listen to everybody.”

“And it don’t do to sit still and do nothing neither,” snapped Mrs. Sparrow. “I don’t want to have to forget I’m a lady, but—well, any man who was a man would see things for himself.”

“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow.

They flew away together, quarrelling.