having their upper spurs produced into long, thread-like 
processes, which extinguishes any possibility of a warning 
“ swish.” 
John Bright, in one of his magnificent perorations, caused 
his spell-bound listeners to catch their breath, when, con- 
juring up a vision of the Angel of Death, he remarked ‘“ we 
can almost hear the rustle of his wings.” One realizes the 
vividness of that imagery, when one hears, as on rare occasions 
one may, the awe-inspiring rustle of the death-dealing swoop 
of the falcon, or the sparrow-hawk, as he strikes down his 
victim. 
But the swish and whistle of wings often stirs the blood 
with delicious excitement, as, when one is out on some cold, 
dark night, “‘ flighting.’ That is to say, awaiting mallard 
passing overhead on the way to their feeding ground, or in 
watching the hordes of starlings, or swallows, settling down 
to roost in a reed-bed. No words can describe these sounds, 
but those to whom they are familiar know well the thrill of 
enjoyment they beget. There is no need, here, to muffle the 
sound of the wing-beat. The falcon vies with the lightning 
in his speed, escape is well-nigh hopeless: neither have the 
swallows need for silence ; indeed, on these occasions, they 
add, to the music of their wings, the enchantment of their 
twittering. 
So much for flight in its more general aspects. Let us 
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