254 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



fellow swifts still nest in hollow tree trunks after 

 tlie ancient practice of their family. What mar- 

 velous sense is it which brings them back by clay 

 or by night, in sunlight or in storm, straight as 

 thought itself, to home and rest ? 



I never have met a man who remembered 

 having seen a swift perch. It was formerly sup- 

 posed that they had no feet, and some people 

 still believe the fable. In building-time the birds 

 come spinning through the air like projectiles, 

 and while flying thus snap small terminal twigs 

 from sycamores and other brittle trees, and carry 

 them back to their chimneys, to be painstakingly 

 glued into their fragile nests. After seeing my 

 swifts use their feet so readily in getting to and 

 from their nest, I shall not be much surprised 

 some day to see a swift alight upon some conven- 

 ient perch outside his chimney. Nevertheless, 

 so far as is now known, the swifts take no rest 

 even after flying many miles with incredible 

 speed, until their accustomed shelter is regained. 



When Saturday came, I felt that it was time 

 to see more of my noisy tenants. In the inter- 

 vening days something which looked like a happy 

 thought had come to me. Why should I lie 

 supine among the fire irons gazing up the black 

 chimney hole, when, by judicious use of a few 

 mirrors, I could bring the swifts and their cavern 

 within range of my writing table ? Saturday 



