THE MARTIN. 35 
them to retire to it every evening, or whenever they appeared to feel the cold. 
At the end of a month the Martins were able to feed themselves, and, like all the 
FTiirundinide when accustomed to soft food, they ate far more than was good for 
them. I now tried a change of diet, giving ‘“‘ Abrahams’ Food for Nightingales,” 
damped ants’ cocoons, cut up mealworms, and flies; but it was of no use, for three 
of them soon died of plethora, and probably, in part, owing to insufficient exercise, 
although we did our best to encourage them to exert themselves in various ways. 
One of our plans was to put all four on the ground at one end of the room, then 
run to the other end and call them: this was the signal for a most comical race, 
in which at first they ran at a surprising rate though very awkwardly; but, as 
they became excited in the race, used their wings, and finished with a series of 
astounding leaps, finally flying on to our arms, and either running up our sleeves, 
nestling down in the hollowed palms of our hands, or perching on our shoulders. 
My son used often to hold one up in his hand, and it invariably sprang up and 
pecked his nose, but only one of the four would do this. 
Although naturally so greedy, our Martins would invariably leave their food 
and fly to us when called; they could not therefore be accused, like most cage- 
birds, of cupboard-love; they were also unlike other birds in their fondness for 
being handled and stroked. 
My fourth bird lived until the morning of September 18th, and became a 
general pet: his cage was kept in a small spare room, the wire door being usually 
left open, so that he could go out and in at pleasure; every day, as soon as I 
returned from town, I used to run up and call him, and he would at once fly to 
me and nestle down in my hand. ‘Towards the end of his life he appeared to feel 
the cold, and usually retired early to his cocoa-nut nest, but he generally tumbled 
out as soon as he heard my footstep. Two days before he died his cage door was 
shut and he had got into his snuggery, but I called out, ‘“‘ Well little chap, how 
are you?’ In a moment his head was popped out and he sprang to the cage- 
door: I opened it, stepped back to the end of the room and called him, and he 
immediately flew across as usual. 
I don’t think I was ever more fond of any pet than I was of that House- 
Martin, and I felt his death acutely: but, nevertheless, I do not recommend the 
species as a cage-bird; its wings are so long, and its legs so short, that the 
primaries constantly get dragged through the dirt and need frequently cleansing, 
which tends to give the birds cold. A long and well-warmed corridor would make 
a suitable aviary for them.* 
* I published this account in slightly different words in the ‘‘Zoologist” for 1891, pp. 397, 398. 
