with his hand.

There it lay, Eve and Petro's wonderfully modeled nest of clay, broken
to bits on the ground and spoiled, oh, quite spoiled. There is a saying
that it brings bad luck to do harm to a swallow. What bad luck, then,
had the hand of That Boy brought to the world that day?

[Illustration: _They always chatted a bit and then went on with their
work, placing their plaster carefully._]

Bad luck it brought to Eve and Petro, who had toiled patiently and
unafraid beside the ladder-top, with faith in those who climbed quietly
to watch the little feathered masons at their work. But now the walls of
their home were broken and crumbled, and their faith was broken and
crumbled, too. In dismay they cried out when they saw what was
happening, and in dismay their swallow comrades cried out with them.
Fear and disappointment entered their quick hearts, which had been
beating in confidence and hope. People who climbed ladders were not
beings to trust, after all, but frightful and destroying creatures. This
had the hand of That Boy brought to Eve and Petro, who looked at the
empty place where their nest had been, and went away.

Bad luck it brought to an artist who drew pictures of birds; and when he
knew what had happened, a sudden light flamed in his eyes. The name of
this light is anger--the kind that comes when harm has been ruthlessly
done to the weak and helpless. For the artist had climbed the ladder
many a time, and had laid his quiet hand upon the lower curve of the
nest while Eve and Petro went on with their building at the upper edge.
And he had seen the colors of their feathers and the shape of the pale
crescent on their foreheads--the mark a man named Say had noticed many
years before, when he named this swallow in Latin, _lunifrons_, because
_luna_ means moon and _frons_ means front. And he had hoped to climb the
ladder many a time again, and when there should be young in the nest, to
see how they looked and watch what they did, so that he could draw
pictures of the children of Eve and Petro.

Bad luck it brought to a writer of bird stories; and when she knew what
had happened, something like an ache in her throat seemed to choke her,
something that is called anger--the kind that comes when harm is done to
little folk we love. For she had climbed the ladder many a time, and had
rested her head against the top while she watched Eve and Petro push the
pellets of mud from their mouths with their tongues and