154 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



the village, two blocks away, was dry. These 

 rains were often so local that at one time my 

 sidewalk on our side of the street was cjuite wet, 

 while my neighbour's across the street had not a 

 drop. 



My husband and I, sitting on the veranda one 

 Sabbath afternoon shortly after dinner, saw one 

 of these local rains falling a short distance east of 

 us, over an area that looked to be no larger than 

 an average building lot in a village. At the same 

 time the martins on our windmill behind the house 

 saw it, and high in a flock they began taking a 

 bath in air by flying through the rainfall, turning 

 and plunging into it again. They kept this up 

 with constant chatter and manifest delight until 

 they attracted the attention of a large flock of 

 chimney swallows, living in the belfry of the village 

 school-house about two blocks away, air line. The 

 swallows came chattering, dozens of them in a 

 flock, and dashed into the rain for a bath or a 

 drink on wing. All of this time, the sun was 

 shining brightly almost directly behind our backs 

 so that the falling drops were tinted in rainbow 

 lights, and the bodies of the birds, heading into 

 the water, seemed to be bordered with rainbow 

 colours, making one of the most exquisite sights 

 imaginable. 



Crossing a field in the region of the Limberlost 

 late one afternoon in fall, in approaching a road 

 I heard a confusion of bird voices, all seeming to 



