UP THE CHIMNEY. 29 



by the ascending currents of air. Each globule shone with light, 

 and looked almost as white as a snowflake. As they approached 

 the nest few seemed to touch it, but curved away from it in some 

 eddy of the air, and settled down into the depths of darkness 

 below. During the rain both birds remained in the chimney 

 most of the time. Sunday, July 16th, proved to be an unusually 

 warm day, and, what was perhaps of more moment to the swifts, a 

 very dry day, there seeming to be no moisture left in air or vege- 

 tation. About noon, while writing at my table, I heard the famil- 

 iar booming, whistling, and chirping in the chimney, and as I 

 glanced up I saw that one of the birds was coming to the nest and 

 the other just going off up chimney. Suddenly there was a grat- 

 ing sound, a sharp outcry, more booming and fluttering, and I 

 jumped to my feet and knelt before the glass to gain a closer view 

 of the chimney. The nest had vanished. Only a tiny piece of 

 glue adhered to the slight curve in the bricks under which the 

 nest had been attached. The parent bird, with ruffled plumage 

 and rapidly moving head, clung near the spot where her home 

 had been, and seemed to me to be looking with terror far down 

 into that horrible abyss where her young had fallen, and from 

 which they sent back no cry. Taking down the pointed rod, I 

 used the small mirror to search every part of the great chimney 

 cavern which could be reached, but in vain. The nest had gone 

 straight down without touching any fireplace, and had been lost 

 forever in the debris and stifling dust at the bottom of the shaft. 



During the remainder of the day the birds fluttered back and 

 forth and lamented. They did not go more than two or three 

 inches below the spot where the ill-fated nest had been. At 

 intervals during the night I heard them moving in the chimney, 

 but on Monday they stayed away most of the time, even during a 

 heavy shower which fell late in the afternoon. Toward evening 

 I saw both of them perched near the site of their fallen home, and 

 during that night and on other days and nights the sound of their 

 wings occasionally came to me as a reminder of their vanished 

 happiness. They made no effort to rebuild in my chimney, yet 

 their presence in it seemed to show that they had not begun 

 housekeeping elsewhere. I doubt not that another summer, that 

 love of home which is so closely connected with birds' ability to 

 find a familiar spot by day or by night, even after months of ab- 

 sence, will bring my swifts back to their old flue. 



IT appears from the altitudes of the highest douds measured at Upsala, Swe- 

 den, Kew, England, nnd Blue Hill, Mass., that the upper limit of ordinary clouds 

 in temperate latitudes is between thirteen and fifteen kilometres, or nine miles; 

 but it is possible that more numerous measurements may extend it to ten miles. 



