I do not know whether they considered that the fly-papers in our sitting-room might be thwarting the designs of Providence on their behalf, but we had hardly begun using them for the destruction of the flies, when Herr von Schwalbe flew down from his castle through the open window, apparently sent as a deputy to remonstrate with us on this reckless waste of their legitimate game. He fluttered about, glancing at the dead bodies strewn on the floor; then, taking his post on the top of a picture hanging on the wall, remained several hours, drawing his own deductions, but always too timid to raise a complaint. In vain we tried to encourage him, to induce him to leave his lofty position: the lonely visitant remained timidly stationary, so that night came on before he ventured his flight.
Although Herr von Schwalbe might not approve of our unscrupulous destruction of flies, he must have reported us a well-meaning family, seeing that his wife ever afterward treated us with the greatest confidence. She was an elegant lady, with the most approved Grecian bend. She gave a kettle-drum once to her friends and relations at the unseasonable hour of four o'clock in the morning, but in all other cases observed her character of a wise, prudent little matron. Day by day she conducted her happy family to a horizontal pole suitably fastened to the upper gallery, where she cultivated their intellects, and, assisted by her devoted husband, gave them flying and singing lessons, each vocal attempt being rewarded by a liberal supply of flies.
We likewise became interested in a couple of redstarts, who, waxing bold, would tap at the casement, bidding us come and admire their young in the nest under the portico. This was during our first visit: on our second we found some dire misfortune had befallen the mother, the children and the nest. The Hofbauer feared some servant must have destroyed them. The poor little father remained attached to the melancholy spot, and, refusing to be comforted because his dear ones were not, flew round perpetually with a worm in his bill. In his despair he would drop it untouched with piteous laments, until, as if his small instinct had become crazed, he would go in search of a fresh dainty morsel, and the sad scene was enacted over again. Poor forlorn bird! Like the swallows, the redstarts are dedicated to the Virgin: such high patronage, however, in this case availed nothing.