New Walks in Old Ways 



then observe individual acts almost 

 startling in their daring. On the even- 

 ing of June 26 the sun was setting in 

 the far northwest, at the end of a day 

 of high temperatures. In the south- 

 east the grey face of a three-quarter 

 moon, preparing to throw down a 

 flood of light, was already visible. 

 Martin-town was busy. Some of the 

 birds were on the wing, and others 

 were sitting on the doorsteps of their 

 colonial apartment house, engaged in 

 animated conversation; some of the 

 remarks being obviously addressed to 

 one another, and other expressions, 

 with equal certainty, were for the 

 benefit of the fledglings inside. I sat 

 on a bench beneath a little clump of 

 trees nearby, trying to translate some 

 of these notes; many of which were 

 beautifully clear and flute-like. In 

 fact, the martin's speaking voice, in 

 such intimate contact as this with his 

 (or her) own, is decidedly better than 

 his chatter in the air. 



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