A Purple Martin Colony* 



By WINSOR M. TYLER, Lexington, Mass. 



MOUNTED on a pole in the dooryard of the farm in Salisbury, N. H., 

 where we spent from July 13 to 17, 191 2, was a well-populated 

 Martin-house — a big, substantially made three-story house, painted 

 white, with two covered piazzas, a cupola topped by a miniature weather- 

 vane, and forty-four windows, each of which led to an inner apartment. 

 More than half of these rooms were occupied, each by a pair of Purple Martins 

 and their young. These birds form by far the largest Martin colony in the 

 neighborhood, and are highly valued by the Dunlop family, on whose farm 

 they have bred for years. In return for their shelter, the Martins afford to 

 their vicinity a protection against hawks, it is thought, and also enliven their 

 surroundings with an atmosphere of untiring energy, not unlike the daily life 

 of the New England farmer. 



When we arrived, on the afternoon of July 13, the young were well grown 

 and were all, apparently, in the nest. The little birds, in threes and fours, 

 looked solemnly out from their windows — some side by side, others one above 

 another as if standing in an upright pile. On the face of each was an expression 

 of imperturbable gravity; they looked like tiny owls until, as the old birds 

 approached, they opened their pale yellow mouths and cried for food. They 

 were always unsatisfied except for the moment after a large insect was thrust 

 down their throats. 



One of the young birds was much smaller than the others; he was a little, 

 puny thing, with bare places on his breast between the feather tracts, and 

 was alone in his nest. He was fed at long intervals on July 13, but the next 

 morning, although a female bird brought food to his window and often entered 

 his room, she always came out without feeding him. Time after time she 

 returned, hunted for her young, and flew off with the insect she had caught for 

 him. Apparently she could not understand what was plain to us — that he 

 lay dead in his nest. 



The Dunlop farm stands on a low hillside overlooking a sluggish stream, 

 which, during its course through the valley, widens occasionally into a broad, 

 almost currentless pond. The largest of these ponds, a mile toward the north, 

 bordered by pond-lilies and abounding in dragon-flies, was, I think, the chief 

 feeding-ground of the Martins. 



All day long the birds coursed over this country, driving along with full, 

 strong wing-beats, and sailing on set triangular wings, wheeling, dodging, and 

 performing incredible feats of equilibrium. And all day long, without rest, 

 both parents brought food to their waiting young. Flying swiftly to the 

 entrance hole, they clung to the threshold, supporting themselves with the 

 tail, and instantly crammed an insect into an open mouth. The food received 



*Read before the Nuttall Ornithological Club, February 17. 1913 

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