WATCHING THE PROCESSION 95 
true, do pass my door, and even tarry for a day 
or two under my windows, but to see others I 
have to go into the woods. Some I find only in 
deep, almost impenetrable swamps, dodging in 
and out among thick bushes and cat-tails. A 
good many follow the coast. I watch them run- 
ning along the sea-beach on the edge of the surf, 
or walking sedately over muddy flats where I 
need rubber boots in which to follow them. 
Some are silent during the day, but as darkness 
comes on indulge in music and queer aerial 
dancing. 
Many travel altogether by night, resting and 
feeding in the daytime. It is pleasant to stand 
out of doors in the evening, and hear them call- 
ing to each other overhead as they hasten north- 
ward ; for at this time of the year, I have forgot- 
ten to say, they are always traveling in a northerly 
direction. 
The procession, as such, has no definite ter- 
minus. It breaks up gradually by the dropping 
out of its members here and there. Each of 
them knows pretty well where he is going. This 
one, who came perhaps from Cuba, means to stop 
in Massachusetts; that one, after a winter in 
Central America, has in view a certain swamp or 
meadow, or, it may be, some mountain-top, in 
New Hampshire ; another will not be at home till 
