The Parting Guests. 105 



We remember, too, how the cuckoo grew hoarse, and 

 fitful, and then silent, long ago. We are conscious that 

 it is long since the nightingale, and the blackcap, and 

 a score of sylvan minstrels, cheered the woodland with 

 their varied strains. The landrail's inharmonious note 

 has been unheard since the early days of summer. 

 The swift vanished even before the fire was on the 

 leaves. 



One after another, these and half a hundred others 

 of our summer guests have silently left their haunts in 

 field and lane and woodland for a sunnier climate and 

 a warmer air. They vanished, as they came, by 

 moonlight ; and the late October moon will light only 

 a few stragglers on their southward journey. 



All, however, have not left us yet. On roofs and 

 rails, and along the convenient resting-place of tele- 

 graph-wires, troops of swallows are still gathering, with 

 no little interchange of gentle speech, and flutter of 

 careless wings. They are on the eve of setting out for 

 those far-off regions where no frost will mar the genial 

 comfort of the sunshine ; and where no shortness of 

 provisions will drive them from the ancestral home- 

 stead. 



But we may expect to see them fairly often until the 

 end of this month ; a few during October ; and, on 

 the sea-coast especially, swallows and martins may be 

 observed as late as the end of November. 



The swift is much more restricted in the time of his 

 arrival and departure. He is seldom here much 



