A conversation that took place between Eoineen of the Birds and his mother, one evening of spring, before the going under of the sun. The song-thrush and the yellow-bunting that heard it, and (as I think) told it to my friends the swallows. The swallows that told the story to me.

Come on in, pet. It's rising cold.

I can't stir a while yet, little mother. I'm waiting for the swallows.

For what, little son?

The swallows. I'm thinking they'll be here this night.

Eoineen was high on the big rock that was close to the gable of the house, he settled nicely on top of it, and the white back of his head against the foot of the ash-tree that was sheltering him. He had his head raised, and he looking from him southward. His mother looked up at him. It seemed to her that his share of hair was yellow gold where the sun was burning on his head.

There came a delightful evening in the end of April. The air was clear and cool after a shower of rain. There was a wonderful light in the western heavens. The birds sang a strain of music in the wood. The waves were chanting a poem on the strand. But loneliness was on the heart of the boy and he waiting for the swallows.

There was heard, suddenly, a sound that hadn't been heard in that place for more than a half-year. A little, tiny sound. A faint, truly-melodious sound. A pert, joyous twittering, and it unlike any other twittering that comes from the mouth of a bird. With fiery swiftness a small black body drove from the south. It flying high in the air. Two broad, strong wings on it. The shaping of a fork on its tail. It cutting the way before it, like an arrow shot from a bow. It swooped suddenly, it turned, rose again, swooped and turned again. Then it made straight for Eoineen, it speaking at the top of its voice, till it lay and nestled in the breast of the little boy after its long journey from the Southern World.

O, my love, my love you are! says Eoineen, taking it in his two hands and kissing it on the little black head. Welcome to me from the strange countries! Are you tired after your lonely journey over lands and over seas? Ora, my thousand, thousand loves you are, beautiful little messenger from the country where it does be summer always! Where are your companions from you? Or what happened you on the road, or why didn't ye come before this?

While he was speaking like this with the swallow, kissing it again and yet again, and rubbing his hand lovingly over its blue-black wings, its little red throat and its bright, feathered breast, another little bird sailed from the south and alighted beside them. The two birds rose in the air then, and it is the first other place they lay, in their own little nest that was hidden in the ivy that was growing thickly on the walls of the house.

They are found at last, little mother! says Eoineen, and he running in joyfully. The swallows are found at last! A pair came this night—the pair who have their nest over my window. The others will be with us to-morrow.

The mother stooped and drew him to her. Then she put a prayer to God in a whisper, giving thanks to Him for sending the swallows to them. The flame that was in the eyes of the boy, it would put delight on the heart of any mother at all.

It was sound the sleep of Eoineen that night.

The swallows came one after another now—singly at first, in pairs then, and at last in little flocks. Isn't it they were glad when they saw the old place again! The little wood and the brook running through it; the white, sandy beach; the ash-trees that were close to the house; the house itself and the old nests exactly as they left them half a year before that. There was no change on anything but only on the little boy. He was quieter and gentler than he used to be. He was oftener sitting than running with himself about the fields, as was his habit before that. He wasn't heard laughing or singing as often as he used be heard. If the swallows took notice of this much—and I wouldn't say they didn't—it's certain that they were sorry for him.

The summer went by. It was seldom Eoineen would stir out on the street, but he sitting contentedly on the top of the rock, looking at the swallows and listening to their twittering. He'd spend the hours like this. 'Twas often he was there from early morning till there came tráthnóna gréine buidhe, —the evening of the yellow sun; and going within every night he'd have a great lot of stories, beautiful, wonderful stories, to tell to his mother. When she'd question him about these stories, he'd always say to her that it's from the swallows he'd get them.

The priest came in the evening.

How is Eoineen of the Birds this weather, Eibhlin? says he. (The other boys had nicknamed him Eoineen of the Birds on account of the love he had for the birds.)

Muise, Father, he wasn't as well for many a long day as he is since the summer came. There's a blush in his cheek I never saw in it before.

The priest looked sharply at her. He had noticed that blush for a time, and if he did, it didn't deceive him. Other people had noticed it, too, and if they did, it didn't deceive them. But it was plain it deceived the mother. There were tears in the priest's eyes, but Eibhlin was blowing the fire, and she didn't see them. There was a stoppage in his voice when he spoke again, but the mother didn't notice it.

Where's Eoineen now, Eibhlin?

He's sitting on the rock outside, talking to the swallows, as himself says. It's wonderful the affection he has for those little birds. Do you know, Father, what he said to me the other day?

I don't know, Eibhlin.

He was saying that it's short now till the swallows would be departing from us again, and says he to me, suddenly, What would you do, little mother, says he, if I'd steal away from you with the swallows?

And what did you say, Eibhlin?

I said to him to brush out with him, and not be bothering me. But I'm thinking ever since on the thing he said, and it's troubling me. Wasn't it a queer thought for him, Father,—he going with the swallows?

It's many a queer thought comes into the heart of a child, says the priest. And he went out the door, without saying another word.

Dreaming, as usual, Eoineen?

No, Father. I'm talking to the swallows.

Talking to them?

August and September went. October was half out. As the days were getting shorter, Eoineen was rising sadder. 'Twas seldom he'd speak to his mother now, but every night before going to sleep he'd kiss her fondly and tenderly, and he'd say:

Call me early in the morning, little mother. It's little time I have now. They'll be departing without much delay.

A beautiful day brightened in the middle of the month. Early in the morning, Eoineen took notice that the swallows were crowding together on the top of the house. He didn't stir from his seat the length of that day. Coming in in the evening, says he to his mother:

They'll be departing to-morrow.

How do you know, white love?

They told me to-day…Little mother, says he again, after a spell of silence.

What is it, little child?

I can't stay here when they're gone. I must go along with them… to the country where it does be summer always. You wouldn't be lonely if I'd go?

O! treasure, my thousand treasures, don't speak to me like that! says the mother, taking him and squeezing him to her heart. You're not to be stolen from me! Sure, you wouldn't leave your little mother, and go after the swallows?

Eoineen didn't say a word, but to kiss her again and again.

Another day brightened. The little, wee boy was up early. From the start of day hundreds of swallows were gathered together on the ridge of the house. From time to time one or two of them would go off and they'd return again, as if they'd be considering the weather. At last a pair went off and they didn't return. Another pair went off. The third pair went. They were going one after another then, till there didn't remain but one little flock only on the horn of the house. The pair that came first on yon evening of spring six months before that were in this little flock. It's like they were loath to leave the place.