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THE CONDOR Vol. IX 



to roar by. A black cat that walked into the chapel was surprised by a similar — 

 passage of arms? 



The cat might well have been attracted to the old ruin as a hunting ground, 

 and had the swifts wanted other avian associates they would not have lacked for 

 them. For besides the eave swallows whose nests lined some of the arches of the 

 chapel, there were many visitors. Barn owl pellets strewed the chancel floor show- 

 ing that the occupants of the loft beyond frequently stopped in passing. Hum- 

 ming-birds whizzed in to feed from the long yellow tubes of the tobacco tree 

 standing at the foot of the chancel, and brown chippies hopped about as if realizing 

 that their presence was needed to complete any California assemblage. A harsh- 

 voiced kingbird and a gentle black phoebe were seen perching on top of a roofless 

 wall, while a mocker, as usual wholly unconscious of his flippancy lit airily on the 

 cross of the restored chapel. 



But while enjoying the feathered visitors who seemed so much at home about 

 the ruin, I had not learned the last word concerning the residents. The nests of 

 eight of the ten swifts actually counted had been placed, but there remained at 

 least one pair of birds still to be located, and the colony might well have numbered 

 more than ten. The best places on the inside walls had been examined but the 

 high outside walls of the chapel in whose chinks tobacco trees had taken root at 

 various levels afforded abundant nesting sites, and before leaving I made a hur- 

 ried examination of them, forcing a way thru the high thicket of brown cockle 

 burs at their base. 



A house wren whose brood was in the weeds below was overhead hopping 

 jauntily along a row of eave swallow nests decorating a cornice, and glimpses were 

 had of visiting artists at work in picturesque corners, but the swifts were little in 

 evidence that morning, perhaps because the priest had come to the village— called 

 to administer the Last Sacrament to a dying Mexican — and there had been a great 

 ringing of bells and early mass at the little chapel a stone's throw from the swifts' 

 part of the old Mission. 



Whatever the reason, the only members of the colony seen were on the wing. 

 But they were worth wading thru cockle burs to see. They were on the way to 

 the chapel nests but instead of flying straight to them, to my surprise, circled com- 

 pletely around the outside walls of the chapel before entering! Apparently they 

 had come at such a high rate of speed that it was easier to slow down gradually 

 and to fly in on a curve. It was interesting and characteristic, for tho the swifts 

 when flying more slowly sometimes change direction with a jerk, when going fast 

 they generally circle in large curves. 



Tho convinced that there were probably more nests to be found in the outside 

 walls if I could but watch long enough, trains do not change schedules for lagging 

 ornithologists, and my time was up. Turning away from the Mission absorbed in 

 thoughts of the present I was startled by the vision of a tall Franciscan in long 

 gown and Friar's hood, crossing to the chapel — like a ghost from Capistrano's his- 

 toric past. Even then, however, while pausing to look back upon the wonderful 

 old ruin wnth its arched chapels and beautiful colonnades, my chief regret was that 

 I must leave without further study this home of the White-throated Swifts. 



Washington, D. C. 



