; and as they had recently had accessions to their
families, Oscar concluded this must be the first appearance of the
new-comers in public. The old birds fluttered back and forth,
twittering and talking to the young ones all the while, and trying to
entice them to commit themselves again to their wings. The little
fearful things looked doubtingly, first one way and then another, as
though they would gladly launch away upon their destined element, if
they were only sure they should not tumble ingloriously to the ground.
The clamor of the old ones increased every moment. They called and
coaxed more earnestly, and fluttered more impatiently, until at length
the young birds worked up their courage to the requisite point, and
away the whole flock darted, towards the barn.

Now that the swallows were out of his way, Oscar returned to his letter
once more. Had he learned a lesson of self-confidence from the example
of the little swallows, the few minutes he spent in watching their
movements would have been well employed. But instead of his confidence
increasing, he was now almost sick of the sight of the letter, and
began to doubt whether he should ever finish it. While he was
hesitating whether he had better tear it up, or try once more to go on
with it, a sweet childish voice from the garden engaged his attention.
He looked from the window, and saw little Mary sitting down upon the
grass, in a shady spot, with a large book open before her. She was
looking at the engravings in the volume, and was talking very earnestly
to herself, and to the figures in the pictures.

"There is Emily," she was saying, "and there is father with a shovel;
and this one is me, and that is Jerry, and that's Oscar, carrying a
basket. I guess they 're going to dig potatoes. O, what lots of
houses over the other side of the pond; and there 's one, two, three,
five, ten, eight meeting-houses, too. It must be Boston, I guess,
there are so many houses there. And there's a great boat coming--O
what a smoke it makes!--and it's got wheels, too. Now we'll get right
into it, and go and see Uncle Henry and all the folks. Stop, stop, you
boat! Now that's too bad--it goes by, and we can't go to Boston."

[Illustration: Mary and the Picture-Book.]

Thus little Mary continued to talk to the pictures and to herself,
unconscious that any one was listening to her. She was a pretty child,
and, all unknown to herself, she made almost as attractive a p