The Northern Black Swift 
Mr. Vrooman when the annual take was made. After a long motor 
drive up the coast in the teeth of a fresh gale, we turned in at a point 
where the cliffs were only 65 or 70 feet high. Here the surf, crashing 
against the abrupt sea-wall, kept the vegetation moist; and here, at a 
point some thirty feet over the crest of the cliff, the location was made. 
The Swift, when apprised of our presence by the rattling of Vrooman’s 
“devil box,” darted downward toward the water, and passing with 
strong wing-stroke close to the surface of the water, stood straight to 
sea until lost from sight. A Black Swift I knew it to be at first glance, 
but this was amazing behavior for a land bird. A Kaeding Petrel or a 
Cassin Auklet, haled from its burrow and tossed into the air, would have 
acted just so; but why should this gleaner of heavenly gnats, this inspector 
of glacier-carpeted fastnesses and habitant of clouds, seek the sympathy 
or the seclusion of the open sea? Quien sabe? Although we knew about 
where the bird had got up, we did not know the precise spot quitted. 
The minute search, therefore, required several resettings of the stout 
steel stake which supported the swinging ladder, and it was nearly an 
hour before Vrooman appeared aloft bearing that studied, matter-of-fact 
expression which is the precursor of important news. He had found the 
egg on a mud cornice some 30 feet down, half hidden in the growing 
grasses. He had barely returned, however, when a shout from another 
member of our party, posted on a commanding cliff-edge hard by, ap¬ 
prised us of the return of the bird. She had swept in once, feinted and 
retreated, but she threatened to return again. Hastily drawing up the 
ladder, we flung ourselves face down upon a neighboring point, and had 
the satisfaction of seeing her sweep grandly upward to her nesting ledge. 
The grass concealed her from inquisitive gaze, even of binoculars, but 
there she undoubtedly was, brooding on her solitary, titled egg. 
It was too good to be true. This mistress of the clouds, this storied, 
quested, eccentric sky-wanderer, sitting there with wings meekly folded, 
behind a tussock of grass! We felt like the farmer at the circus, who, 
having gazed long at the giraffe, declared, “By gum, there ain’t no such 
creature.” 
When she flushed again, after another reminder from Vrooman’s 
rattle-box, we had the camera set for her. But she was quite too nimble 
for us, even with a shutter set at 1/1000 of a second. And so she passed 
to sea again, flying straight beyond the range of 8-power glasses, and 
leaving us in undisputed possession of the pearly trophy. 
This, the rarest of American birds’ eggs, is remarkable not alone 
for its singular number, but for its large size, greater than that of any 
other American Swift. Thus, in comparison with the egg of the White- 
throated Swift, figured herewith, it is seen to be about three times larger, 
