flock had reached the center of the city and had 

 driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of 

 the streets. Weary from the heat, they were 

 dismayed at the noise, their leader faltered, and, 

 at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to 

 pieces. 



There is nothing in the life of birds quite so 

 stirring to the imagination as their migration : 

 the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden ap- 

 pearance of strange warblers, the call of passing 

 plovers— all are suggestive of instincts, move- 

 ments, and highways that are unseen, unaccount- 

 able, and full of mystery. Little wonder that 

 the most thrilling poem ever written to a bird 

 begins : 



Whither, midst falling dew, 

 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 

 Par, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 



Thy solitary way ? 



The question, the mystery in that "certain 

 flight " I never felt so vividly as from my roof. 

 Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the 

 water-fowl passing. Sometimes I have heard 

 them going over in the dark. One night I re- 



[16] 



