THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS. 183 



northward of us in incalculable numbers. 

 All of 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, 1 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 



