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Author: Harrison, George H.
Source: Birder’s World
COPYRIGHT 2004 Kalmbach Publishing Company
One swallow maketh not summer,” wrote the English playwright John Heywood in 1546, but for me, one swallow, the first Barn Swallow of the season, made it summer at my Grandfather Hill’s farm near Leisureville, Pennsylvania.
I spent many of my boyhood summers at the Hill farm doing chores and learning about nature. I put up bluebird houses, spied on a den of red foxes, chased cottontail rabbits, found the nest cavity of a Red-headed Woodpecker, and kept box turtles from the woodlot. But one of the most fascinating lessons for me was watching the Barn Swallows that nested on the rafters of the barn.
I can still see in my mind their flowing, graceful flight. Like performers in a choreographed ballet, they skimmed over fields, swooped down on ponds, and darted effortlessly through the barn door and up to rafters where mates and young awaited. As they flew, they chittered and chattered a pleasant chorus of kvik-kvik, wit-wit. When they arrived at the nest, there was a chatty greeting between mates or a demanding chorus of begging chicks.
Little did I know then that I would grow up to admire the beautiful forked-tailed bird with a metallic blue back and rich rufous breast far from the Pennsylvania farm. That’s because the same species, Hirundo rustica, is found on all the continents except Antarctica. I’ve had the pleasure of watching Barn Swallows in the Cotswolds of England, on the beaches of Normandy, in the Steppes of Russia, and on the Serengeti in East Africa.
I have met farmers all over the world who have a kinship with Barn Swallows because…
