66 THE NIGHT-HAWK 



The Sparrows we have always with us. They are 

 like ourselves. They build hideous habitations 

 beyond their needs, and willingly endure the taints 

 of civilisation for the sake of fighting over its few good 

 things. The Sparrow has descended to the level of 

 civilised man, and his power and influence amongst 

 us is gone forever. The Swallow or Swift is a summer 

 boarder in the city, too much inclined to adopt our 

 ways. He brings with him the lively freshness of 

 nature, yet after a few days* sojourning he chatters 

 over the morning news, brushes the dust off his coat 

 and goes about his daily affairs with the dull fidelity 

 of his neighbours. But the Night-hawk never takes 

 up the white man's burden. He is a missionary from 

 the great outer world — in the city, but not of it. His 

 name is as ill-applied as it is ill-omened, for he is not 

 connected with the Hawks by consanguinity, sympathy, 

 or unity of purpose. He has a grace of flight peculiarly 

 his own, turning, wheeling, and darting hither and 

 thither without apparent effort, or circling on easily 

 extended pinions. The conspicuous white spot under 

 each wing looks like a hole, and may have suggested 

 the modern idea of ventilating yacht sails. Nature 

 paints with a careful touch, and the great spots, 

 bands, and patches carelessly displayed by birds in 

 white, black, or colour are laid on the exposed webs 

 or tips, one feather at a time, so that a plucked 

 quill would be as irregular and meaningless as a 



