THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 183 — 
northward of us in incalculable numbers. 
All ot them go south between the middle of 
July and the first of October. But who in 
New England has ever seen any grand army 
of them actually on the wing? Do they 
straggle along so loosely as to escape par- 
ticular notice? If so, what mean congrega- 
tions like that in the Ipswich dunes? Or 
are their grand concerted flights taken at 
such an altitude as to be invisible? 
On several afternoons of last September, 
this time in an inland country, I observed 
what might fairly be called a steady stream 
of tree swallows flying south. Twice, while 
gazing up at the loose procession, I suddenly 
became aware of a close bunch of birds at 
a prodigious height, barely visible, circling 
about in a way to put a count out of the 
question, but evidently some hundreds in 
number. On both occasions the flock van- 
ished almost immediately, and, as I be- 
lieved, by soaring out of sight. The second 
time I meant to assure myself upon this 
point, but my attention was distracted by 
the sudden appearance of several large 
hawks within the field of my glass, and when 
I looked again for the swallows they were 
