20 STORIES OF BIRD LIFE 



tinued with us. One day near the middle of September, 

 we saw from my window that the maple trees over on the 

 hillside were turning yellow and red. "Autumn has 

 come," said my friend. Perhaps the swifts saw the sign 

 too and passed the word that summer had ended and the 

 air would soon be free from insects. 



That evening at the hour of gathering about the chimney 

 less than one hundred appeared. The great flock had 

 probably taken up its line of flight and was now far on 

 its course toward the land of perpetual summer. The 

 others lingered for a month longer, gathering in strag- 

 glers and also those families, the young of which had been 

 slow in getting upon the wing ; and then one day they, too, 

 were off to join their fellows beneath the skies of Mexico 

 or Central America. 



We shall see no more of the swifts until some day next 

 spring when we may hear falling to us from the air above 

 a joyous twittering, and, looking up, may catch a view of 

 the first arrival, a black, animated, bow-and-arrow shaped 

 object darting about at such a height that it seems to be 

 scratching its back against the sky. 



The birds usually reach us in April, and within a few 

 weeks nest building begins. The structure consists of a 

 bracket work of dead twigs glued together somewhat in 

 the form of a half saucer. It may be found sticking to the 



