OF SELBORNE. 281 



haunts the same unlikely roofs: a good proof this that 

 the same birds return to the same spots. As they must 

 stoop very low to get up under these humble eaves, cats 

 lie in wait, and sometimes catch them on the wing. 



On the 5th of July, 1775, I again untiled part of a 

 roof over the nest of a swift. The dam sat in the nest; 

 but so strongly was she affected by natural cro^y^ for 

 her brood, which she supposed to be in danger, that, 

 regardless of her own safety, she would not 'stir, but lay 

 sullenly by them, permitting herself to be taken in hand. 

 The squab young we brought down and placed on the 

 grass-plot, where they tumbled about, and were as 

 helpless as a new-born child. While we contemplated 

 their naked bodies, their unwieldy disproportioned ab- 

 domina, and their heads, too heavy for their necks to 

 support, we could not but wonder when we reflected 

 that these shiftless beings in a little more than a fort- 

 night would be able to dash through the air almost with 

 the inconceivable swiftness of a meteor ; and, perhaps, 

 in their emigration, must traverse vast continents and 

 oceans as distant as the equator. So soon does Nature 

 advance small birds to their yXiyJu, or state of perfec- 

 tion ; while the progressive growth of men and large 

 quadrupeds is slow and tedious 6 ! 



I am, &c. 



6 On the 15th of July I observed some children tossing up a full grown 

 young swift which could not fly, and had fallen down from its nest in the 

 lofty tower of the church. It was full feathered. I took it from them 

 and brought it into my room, and fed it, thinking it might possibly be able 

 to fly away after taking some food, and so rejoin its parents. I crammed 

 it with some nightingale's food, and before long it tools victuals willingly, 

 snapping it sharply off the end of a pen ; but though completely feathered 

 it was quite inert, unable to fly, and not desirous of moving. Having 

 taken it in from chanty, I could not now get rid of it. The food of the 

 nightingale was too laxative for it, but a little meat and hard egg mixed 

 with bread, and a good deal of finely sifted fig dust (which is, I believe, 

 oatmeal, from oats which have not been kiln-dried), and given, not very 

 moist, in little pellets, agreed with it perfectly. It never cried like other 

 little birds for food, but when left too long without, it would get under 

 way and crawl round the room. 



I was much surprised at finding that, although quite mute in the day- 



