There was a swallow who had traveled much, seen much, and learned, as sometimes happens, not a little. She, for instance, could predict the smallest storms before the clouds grew dark, and kindly cautioned sailors not to sail.
At seeding time one year she noticed hemp was being sown in many furrows. To the little birds around her she confessed, “This worries me—for your sakes; I know how to keep away from trouble. But the day’s not far when what is sprinkled on that ground will grow into your ruin. There are born the nets to catch, the snares to trap and take you to your prison or your grave. Beware the cage; beware the cooking pot! If you are wise,” the swallow said, “you’ll eat up all that grain.”
The little birds decried her plan. “That’s far too much for us to eat!”
In time, the field turned green. The swallow said, “It’s not too late. Uproot that cursed crop’s each sprig and sprout—or else!”
“What nonsense these doomsayers do say!” scoffed the little birdlings. “We couldn’t pluck all that if we were twice as many.”
When the hemp-field had matured, the swallow tried again: “Although you have not listened yet, I pray you listen now. When harvest’s done, the idle peasant turns his hand to snatching birds with hempen noose and net. You must then cease to flit about; instead, lie low at home. Or fly, if fly you must, to altogether other climes, like ducks and migratory cranes. But since you’re hardly capable of crossing seas and deserts, you had better rather hide in holes in some old wall.”
The little birds, fed up with bleak prognostications, chirped and chattered over her. The Trojans had ignored Cassandra thus; like Trojans were the birdlings captured, chased, and killed.
We too pay slight attention to another’s fears, and heed a danger but when it appears.