46 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



Suffice to say that no duck or grebe, no penguin 

 or petrel, more fully enjoys, or has a more intimate 

 acquaintance with the mysteries of water than this 

 thrush. Swimming and diving for its food, with 

 its nest built under some brawling fall on a moun- 

 tain stream, and never away from the water, it 

 is as eminently a water-bird as can be conceived, 

 yet, perched on some wet stone protruding out of 

 the rushing mountain stream, it pours forth a song 

 which rivals that of any of its compeers — the 

 nightingale or the shamah. Without question 

 their ancestry is indicated in many of our song- 

 birds. 



My first impression of Coalburg was of the 

 birds. As we walked to the house from the land- 

 ing — only a few steps — I saw a colony of purple 

 martins which occupied a cote in the yard where 

 the residence stood. Swallows do not sing much, 

 and their twitter is heard only by giving close at- 

 tention. The purple martin, largest of all our 

 American swallows, would be remarkable if only 

 for the beautiful polished color of his royal coat. 

 Added to this his great affection for his kind (mani- 

 fest in colonies where many pairs associate), the 

 loud, joyous warble of mating and breeding time, 

 the grace of flight and the beauty of form, com- 

 bine to make the martin one of the most desir- 

 able birds about a country place. 



Martins are curious birds in disposition, rather 



