Synopsis

A conversation that took place between Eoineen of the Birds and his mother, one evening of spring, before the going under of the sun. The song-thrush and the yellow-bunting that heard it, and (as I think) told it to my friends the swallows. The swallows that told the story to me. ‘Come on in, pet. It's rising cold.’ ‘I can't stir a while yet, little mother. I'm waiting for the swallows.’ ‘For what, little son?’ ‘The swallows. I'm thinking they'll be here this night.’