172 THE STRUGGLE. 
rather than face the cold—they knew that 
to-morrow must be their last day there. 
After to-morrow they must go, must obey 
the imperious summons of instinct, and leave 
their last brood to starve. 
The day broke chill and wet, with a moan- 
ing wind from the south-east. The young 
birds of the previous broods, who had so 
loyally remained, dropped out, took a few 
turns about along some sheltered trees, 
snatched a hasty breakfast, and then, rising 
high, with a chorus of ‘ Prrtt! prrtt! prrtt!’ 
went straight into the southern sky. 
The two parents were alone with their third 
brood. 
All day, in spite of the rain, the little birds 
hawked about in the air doggedly, cheating a 
few meals from the damp landscape, juggling 
a few cropfuls of tiny insects from odd and 
sheltered corners. 
The afternoon drew on, dull, wet, hopeless. 
The wind moaned among the oaks, and a 
lonely redwing, sure harbinger of winter, 
went, squeaking in melancholy fashion, across 
the sky. 
Then at last the pair of house-martins gave 
up. They met along the edge of a wood with 
no more than half-a-beakful each of food— 
little spots of white in the slow-gathering 
