CHAPTER III. 
VALLEY OF THE BLACK RIVER. 
Stitt a lingerer in the hospitable shade of the 
Mission House, my chief pleasure during the early 
days of February was in observing the autumnal 
muster of the purple swallows—Progne furcata—a 
species which was abundant at this point, breeding 
in the cliffs overhanging the river; also, like so 
many other swallows in all places, under the eaves 
of houses. It is a large, beautiful bird, its whole 
upper plumage of a rich, glossy, deep purple hue, 
its under surface black. No such large swallows 
as this, with other members of its genus, are known 
in the Old World; and a visitor from Europe would 
probably, on first seeing one of these birds, mistake 
it for a swift; but it has not got the narrow, 
scythe-shaped wings of the swift, nor does it rush 
through the air in the swift’s mad way; on the 
contrary, its flight is much calmer, with fewer quick 
doublings than that of other swallows. It also 
differs from most members of its family in possess- 
ing a set song of several modulated notes, which 
are occasionally warbled in a leisurely manner as 
the bird soars high in the air: as a melodist it 
should rank high among the hirundines. 
