192 OUT WITH THE BIRDS 



went by — the grandest, noblest picture in our 

 North American bird world. When they lit in 

 the field among the shocks, one fellow imme- 

 diately mounted upon the sheaves, from which 

 vantage his wary eye could tower up seven or 

 eight feet — a magnificent sentinel, proof against 

 surprise of stalking foe. At sunset they struck 

 off silently, passed over the big expanse of grass- 

 land and marsh, and disappeared out toward 

 the open lake. Where was their night-roost? 



I felt that the wooded island, that on fine days 

 glimmered off on the horizon across an arm of 

 the lake, could probably answer, so next day I 

 set out in that direction. It was a dozen miles 

 by road, but bicycling on such an autumn day 

 was a pleasure, and soon the miles of aster- 

 decked trails all ahum with the vibrant cricket 

 orchestra were measured off and the white shim- 

 mering lake — well named \¥hitewater — lay 

 close at hand, and its treed island, looming up 

 oasis-like on the plains, beckoned invitingly. 



Just before turning into the broad pasture 

 flanking the lake-shore, I came upon a ren- 

 dezvous of the barn swallows and dismounted 

 to pay my respects to these retreating summer 

 friends. Lined up along the three-stranded wire 



