200 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



last strong and fit, waves them in ecstasy, vibrat- 

 ing from side to side and end to end of his natal 

 pond. Then one day we follow his upward glances 

 to where a thin, black arrow is throbbing south- 

 ward, so high in the blue sky that the individual 

 ducks are merged into a single long thread. The 

 young bird, calling again and again, spurns the 

 water with feet and wings, finally rising in a 

 slowly ascending arc. Somewhere, miles to the 

 southward, another segment approaches — touches 

 — merges. 



But what of our smaller birds? "When the gray 

 days begin to chill we may watch them hopping 

 among the branches all day in their search for 

 insects — a keener search now that so many of the 

 more delicate flies and bugs have fallen chilled to 

 the earth. Toward night the birds become more 

 restless, feed less, wander aimlessly about, but, 

 as we can tell by their chirps, remain near us until 

 night has settled down. Then the irresistible 

 maelstrom of migration instinct draws them up- 

 ward, — upward, — climbing on fluttering wings, a 

 mile or even higher into the thin air, and in com- 

 pany with thousands and tens of thousands they 

 drift southward, sending vague notes down, but 

 themselves invisible to us, save when now and 

 then a tiny black mote floats across the face of 

 the moon — an army of feathered mites, passing 

 from tundra and spruce to bayou and palm. 



In the morning, instead of the half-hearted 



