THE SUMMIT OF THE YEARS 



sect. To know how full the summer air is of fine, 

 gauzy insects, look toward the sun of an afternoon 

 where you have the shadow of a wood for a back- 

 ground. The simlight falling on the wings of the 

 tiny creatures seems greatly to magnify them, and 

 one sees where the speeding swallows reap much of 

 their harvest. 



The phoebe, and all the true flycatchers, hunt in 

 a much less haphazaird way ; like the hawks, they see 

 their prey before they make their swoop; they are 

 true sportsmen and their aim is sure. Perched here 

 and there, they wait for their game to appear. But 

 the swallows hurl themselves through the air with 

 tremendous speed and capture what chances to 

 cross their paths — a feat quite impossible to the 

 regular flycatcher. 



On calm days they hawk high; on windy days 

 their prey flies near the earth and they hunt low. 

 How random and wayward their course is, but 

 what freedom and power of wing it discloses! A 

 poet has caUed them skaters in the field of air, but 

 what skater can perform such gyrations or attain 

 such speed? Occasionally on windy days they seem 

 to dip and turn, or check themselves, as if they saw 

 an individual insect and paused to seize it. But for 

 the most part they seem to strata the air through 

 their beaks and seize what it leaves them. 



As the days pass, the yoimg swallows begin to 

 grow restless. I see them stretching their wings, with 



