THE STRUGGLE. 171 
the nest were none too frequent, and towards 
dusk less frequent still. 
All day long, however, you could see these 
martins, who were cousins of the swallows, 
flying about, always in the air, for ever on the 
wing. You could note the white of their 
rumps flashing against the background of 
blazing copses, or darting up to the nest past 
the now deserted homes of their friends, who 
had already gone south. And they were 
always cheerful, even though risking their 
lives by staying. They had always a cheery 
‘Prrtt! prrtt!’ greeting for their young, as 
they darted up with food. 
In the afternoon a new little falcon, a 
merlin—on passage to the south also, as likely 
as not—pursued the father, and all but caught 
him. In the evening a cat sprang up out of 
the long grass of the meadow-side, what time 
the mother skimmed along the ground there 
for low-flying midges, and missed her by an 
inch only. But it made no difference; the 
cheery ‘Prrtt! prrtt!’ rang out at intervals, 
as the little birds returned to the nest with 
food. Nothing seemed to daunt them, and 
their optimism was immense, seeing that when 
they returned to roost all together in a heap 
that night—putting up with the swarms of 
parasites that now infested the old nest, 
