18 STORIES OF BIRD LIFE 



did the same, then another and another. They went in by 

 pairs, by fours, almost by dozens. The wheel continued to 

 revolve while a stream of birds, as if thrown off by a kind 

 of centrifugal force, continued pouring down into the gap- 

 ing mouth of darkness. 



We stood and counted as best we could the numbers in 

 this cataract of feathered life. Not for one moment was 

 the scene changed until the play was at an end. "One 

 thousand," I said. "One thousand and twenty-five," an- 

 swered the gentleman with me, who had probably counted 

 more correctly. Five or six birds which had hesitated to 

 the last moment to take the plunge, and now possibly 

 missed the moral support of the large company, gave up 

 the idea of stopping there that night, and, turning, flew 

 away into the falling darkness. Night closed in upon the 

 great chimney with its sooty walls lined with an army of 

 clinging, drowsy swifts; for this was the huge bedroom 

 of these little pickaninnies of the air. 



It was now seventeen minutes past seven o'clock. Less 

 than twenty minutes had been required for the whole flock 

 to enter. Since early morning each bird had been upon the 

 wing, roaming the endless pathways of the air in quest of 

 insect food. It is likely that not once during the day had 

 one paused to rest, as the swift never trusts the weight of 



