the Wild Pigeon of America. 261 



hundred and twelve thousand bushels per day which is requir- 

 ed to feed such a flock. 



As soon as these birds discover a sufficiency of food to en- 

 tice them to alight, they fly round in circles, reviewing the 

 country below, and at this time exhibit their phalanx in all 

 the beauties of their plumage ; now displaying a large glisten- 

 ing sheet of bright azure, by exposing their backs to view, 

 and suddenly veering, exhibit a mass of rich deep purple. 

 They then pass lower, over the woods, and are lost among 

 the foliage for a moment, but they reappear as suddenly 

 above ; after which they alight, and, as if affrighted, the 

 whole again take to wing with a roar equal to loud thun- 

 der, and wander swiftly through the forest to see if danger is 

 near. Impelling hunger, however, soon brings them all to 

 the ground, and then they are seen industriously throwing up 

 the fallen leaves to seek for the last beech-nut or acorn ; the 

 rear ranks continually rising, passing over, and alighting in 

 front in such quick succession, that the whole still bears the 

 appearance of being on the wing. The quantity of ground 

 thus swept up, or, to use a French expression, moissonee, is 

 astonishing, and so clean is this work, that gleaners never find 

 it worth their while to follow where the pigeons have been. 

 On such occasions, when the woods are thus filled with them, 

 they are killed in immense numbers, yet without any apparent 

 diminution. During the middle of the day, after their repast 

 is finished, the whole settle on the trees to enjoy rest, and di- 

 gest their food ; but as the sun sinks in the horizon, they de- 

 part en masse for the roosting-place, not unfrequently hun- 

 dreds of miles off, as has been ascertained by persons keeping 

 account of their arrival and of their departure from their curious 

 roosting-places, to which I must now conduct the reader. 



To one of those general nightly rendezvous, not far from 

 the banks of Green River in Kentucky, I paid repeated visits. 

 It was, as is almost always the case, pitched in a portion of 

 the forest where the trees were of great magnitude of growth, 

 but with little underwood. I rode through it lengthwise 

 upwards of forty miles, and crossed it in different parts, as- 

 certaining its average width to be rather more than three 



