11)1 
The Pnni<in(j of the JTirds. 
1892 .] 
elm to another, and piping in his haj)- 
])iest manner as he Hies. It might l)e 
the middle of May, to judge from his 
behavior. JJe likes dog-day weather, 
there can he no ([uestion of tluit, liow- 
ever the rest of tlie world may grmnl)le. 
Tliis is a time when one sees many 
birds, hut few species. Bluebirds are 
several times as ahundant as in June, 
'riie air is sweet with their calls at this 
moment, and once in a while some fa¬ 
ther of the dock lets his ha])})iness run 
over in stum. One cannot c’O far now 
without finding the road full of chi})- 
ping s])arrows, springing up in their 
})retty, characteristic way, and letting 
the breeze catch them. Tlie fences 
and wayside a])])le-trees are lively with 
kingbirds and jJioehes. I am already 
watchino- the former with a kind of 
O ^ 
mournful interest. In ten days, or 
some such matter, we sluill have seen 
the last of their saucy antics. Gay 
tyrants I They are among tlie first 
hii'ds of whom I can confidently say, 
“They are gone;” and they seem as 
wide-awake when they go as when they 
come. Being a man, J regret their de- 
jiarture; but if I were a crow, I think 
I should be for observing the .‘list of 
August as a day of annual jubilee. 
A few years ago, in September, T 
saw the white-breasted swallows cono-re- 
o 
gated in the Ipswich dunes, — a sight 
never to be forgotten. On the morning 
of the 9th, the fourth day of our visit, a 
considerable dock, but no more,perha])S, 
than we had been seeing daily, came 
skimming over the marshes and settled 
u])on a sand-bar in the river, darken¬ 
ing it in jiatches. At eight o’ldock, 
when we took the stranfclino- road out 
of the hills, a good many — there might 
be a thousand, I guessed — sat u])on the 
fence wires, as if resting. We walked 
inland, and on our return, at noon, 
found,as my notes of the day exjiress it, 
“an innumerable host, thousands upon 
thousands, ” about the landward side 
of the dunes. Fences and haycocks 
were covered. Multitudes were on the 
ground, in the lied of the road, about 
the bare sjiots in the marsh, and on 
the gray faces of the hills. Other 
multitudes were in the hushes and low 
trees, literally loading them, Kveiy 
few minutes a detachment w'ould ilse 
into the air like a (doud, and anon set¬ 
tle dowm again. As we stood gazing 
at the si)ecta(de, my com})anion began 
chir])ing to a youngster wJio sat near 
him on a j)ost, as one might chirj) to a 
(aiged canary, ddie effect was magical. 
The bird at once started towaird him, 
others follow'ed, and in a few seconds 
hundreds w^ere flying about our heads. 
Hound and round they went, almost 
wdthin reach, like .a (doud of gnats, 
“Stop! stop!” cried my companion; 
“I am getting dizzy.” AVe stopped 
our squeakings, and the cloud lifted; 
but I can see it yet. Day after day 
the p-reat conctourse remained about the 
O 
hills, till on the 13th we came away 
and left them. The old lighthouse 
keeper told me that this Avas their an¬ 
nual rendezvous. He once saw' them 
circle for a long time above the dunes, 
for several hours if I remember idght, 
till, as it seemed, all stragglers had 
been called in from the beacdi, the 
marsh, and the outlying grassy liills. 
'riien they mounted into the sky in a 
great spiral till they passed out of 
siglit; and for that year there Avere 
no more SAA'alloAA's. This, he insisted, 
took place in the afternoon, “from 
three to four o’(do(’k.” He Avas un¬ 
questionably telling a straightforAvard 
story of Avhat lie himself had seen, but 
Ids memory may have been at fault; 
for I find it to be tlie settled opinion of 
those Avlio ought to knoAV tliat SAvalloAvs 
migrate by day, and not by night, Avhile 
tlie setting out of a great flock late in 
the afternoon at such a lieiMit Avould 
o 
seem to indicate a nocturnal journey. 
Morning or cA'cning, I Avould give some¬ 
thing to AA'itness so inqiosing a start. 
The recollection of this seaside gath¬ 
ering raises aneAV in my mind the 
question Avhy, if SAvalloAvs and SAvifts 
