He Made No Blow With His Wings; They Were Simply Put Out To
Collect The Air In The Hollow Of Their Curves, And So Prolong His Fall.
Falling From Morn Till Night, He Throws Himself On His Way, A Machine For
Turning Gravity Into A Motive Force.
He fits to the circumstances of his
flight as water fits to the circumstances of the vessel into which it is
poured.
No thought, no stop, no rest. If a waggon had been in the way,
still he would have got left or right through the very eye of the needle.
If a man had been passing, the rush of his wings would not have disturbed
the light smoke from his cigar. Farther up the lane there are two
gateways opposite without gates. Through these swallows are continually
dashing, and I have often felt when coming up the lane as if I must step
on them, and half checked myself. I might as well try to step on
lightning. A swallow came over the sharp ridge of a slate roof and met a
slight current of wind which blew against that side of the shed and rose
up it. The bird remained there suspended with outstretched wings, resting
on the up-current as if the air had been solid, for some moments. He rode
there at anchor in the air. So buoyant is the swallow that it is no more
to him to fly than it is to the fish to swim; and, indeed, I think that a
trout in a swift mountain stream needs much greater strength to hold
himself in the rapid day and night without rest.
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