1. THE SWALLOW
J uliet Stoneâs old black labrador, Max, found the bird first. He discovered it in a cluster of red cedars that was so dense and so dark that only an animal that led with its nose would have noticed it at all. The bird surprised Max. He had been following an elusive fox through the woods, and the scent of the tiny bird pulled him up short. In fact, it surprised him so much that not only did he stop suddenly, but he jumped backward and hesitated before he could work up the nerve to investigate.
He studied the bird for several minutes, pushing its buff-white breast with his nose, probing its yellow and black wings and its forked tail gently with his paw, and then he barked at it. It was a soft bark, a combination of a whine and a moan, but it was loud enough for Juliet to hear it as it echoed through the branches and bounced off the hard snow.
Juliet took her time. She didnât want to be rushed today. It was the first day of Christmas vacation and she was determined to make it a slow, flowing day, a day when one thing blended into the next, softly.
Earlier, she had eased out of bed, taken her time over breakfast, and put on her cross-country skis. When she was ready she had called Max to her and together they had followed the path that led through the woods behind her house to Glacier National Park.
Max led the way. Max always led the way, wandering off sometimes to chase a rabbit or trace a scent or just take a look. But he never stayed away for long.
Juliet loved the park. She loved skiing along the snow-covered paths while the silent world slept around her. Once in awhile she spotted a mountain goat high up in the peaks above her, but most of the time there was nothing but the sound of her skis as they slid along and the sound of the wind whistling through the rocky slopes. She moved quietly, being careful not to wake the sleeping grizzlies in their caves, and every so often she glanced up at the glistening sculptured peaks and ridges and walls that had been formed, were still being formed, by the creeping rivers of ice called glaciers.
Max was barking louder now. The bark had become insistent, a distress call, a message for her to hurry, that something was not right.
She took off her skis and moved into the dark forest of cedars, following his bark until she came to him. When he saw her, he jumped back and whimpered up at her like he always did when there was something that he wanted her to explore, and then he stood there, frowning a bit, and waited.
She saw the swallow then. It was a tiny thing, only six inches long, and it was resting face down on its stomach. It appeared to be dead.
She knelt down and touched the bird, hoping that it would move. Then she saw one of its tiny wings tremble just a bit. Max moved closer and cocked his head and looked at her as if he was waiting for an explanation of some sort, and when it didnât come he circled the bird, around and around, looking for answers. Then he moved closer to the bird and pushed it slightly with his nose. The bird trembled again, and turned slightly.
âItâs a swallow, Max,â Juliet told him. She picked it up and ran her fingers gently through the tiny feathers. âNothing seems to be broken. I wonder what itâs doing here. It should be on its way to South America.â And that is when Juliet noticed the silver ring that was attached to one of its legs. She picked up the little bird and studied the tiny piece of metal.
There was a number on it, the number 6, and an address, P.O. Box 98, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.
Juliet knew about the practice of banding, or ringing, birds. Everyone who lived on a migratory path had heard of it. It was a way of tracing the exact whereabouts of a migrating bird, and assuming the bird lived to complete its journey south from continent to continent, it was effective.
But this bird was one of the unlucky ones. Something had brought it down before it had reached Mexico or
J uliet Stoneâs old black labrador, Max, found the bird first. He discovered it in a cluster of red cedars that was so dense and so dark that only an animal that led with its nose would have noticed it at all. The bird surprised Max. He had been following an elusive fox through the woods, and the scent of the tiny bird pulled him up short. In fact, it surprised him so much that not only did he stop suddenly, but he jumped backward and hesitated before he could work up the nerve to investigate.
He studied the bird for several minutes, pushing its buff-white breast with his nose, probing its yellow and black wings and its forked tail gently with his paw, and then he barked at it. It was a soft bark, a combination of a whine and a moan, but it was loud enough for Juliet to hear it as it echoed through the branches and bounced off the hard snow.
Juliet took her time. She didnât want to be rushed today. It was the first day of Christmas vacation and she was determined to make it a slow, flowing day, a day when one thing blended into the next, softly.
Earlier, she had eased out of bed, taken her time over breakfast, and put on her cross-country skis. When she was ready she had called Max to her and together they had followed the path that led through the woods behind her house to Glacier National Park.
Max led the way. Max always led the way, wandering off sometimes to chase a rabbit or trace a scent or just take a look. But he never stayed away for long.
Juliet loved the park. She loved skiing along the snow-covered paths while the silent world slept around her. Once in awhile she spotted a mountain goat high up in the peaks above her, but most of the time there was nothing but the sound of her skis as they slid along and the sound of the wind whistling through the rocky slopes. She moved quietly, being careful not to wake the sleeping grizzlies in their caves, and every so often she glanced up at the glistening sculptured peaks and ridges and walls that had been formed, were still being formed, by the creeping rivers of ice called glaciers.
Max was barking louder now. The bark had become insistent, a distress call, a message for her to hurry, that something was not right.
She took off her skis and moved into the dark forest of cedars, following his bark until she came to him. When he saw her, he jumped back and whimpered up at her like he always did when there was something that he wanted her to explore, and then he stood there, frowning a bit, and waited.
She saw the swallow then. It was a tiny thing, only six inches long, and it was resting face down on its stomach. It appeared to be dead.
She knelt down and touched the bird, hoping that it would move. Then she saw one of its tiny wings tremble just a bit. Max moved closer and cocked his head and looked at her as if he was waiting for an explanation of some sort, and when it didnât come he circled the bird, around and around, looking for answers. Then he moved closer to the bird and pushed it slightly with his nose. The bird trembled again, and turned slightly.
âItâs a swallow, Max,â Juliet told him. She picked it up and ran her fingers gently through the tiny feathers. âNothing seems to be broken. I wonder what itâs doing here. It should be on its way to South America.â And that is when Juliet noticed the silver ring that was attached to one of its legs. She picked up the little bird and studied the tiny piece of metal.
There was a number on it, the number 6, and an address, P.O. Box 98, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.
Juliet knew about the practice of banding, or ringing, birds. Everyone who lived on a migratory path had heard of it. It was a way of tracing the exact whereabouts of a migrating bird, and assuming the bird lived to complete its journey south from continent to continent, it was effective.
But this bird was one of the unlucky ones. Something had brought it down before it had reached Mexico or
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