"I wonder how it is that they are so black and glossy when they come over to us, and so gray and dingy when they go away?" said I.
"Have you noticed that as a fact?" asked he.
"Oh yes," I replied; and I am sure that I was very proud to be able to say so. "They come for May-Day, looking as smart as possible; and they don't look at all the better for their seaside season when they leave at the end of August."
"I expect they moult in those other countries to which they go when they leave us. But I haven't noticed very many swifts about here, anyhow. Perhaps the country is too wild for them."
"Well, we have plenty of swallows," said I, "and martins too. And I don't know why swifts should be so much more particular than the rest of their family. But I have a standing disagreement upon that point with our old servant Reuben. He swears that there are only eight pairs of swifts in the village, and that the same birds come back every year to the same place."
"That sounds rather incredible," said Mr. Harrod.
"So I say," rejoined I. "But he insists that he has counted the pairs, and that they are always the same number. And as, of course, there must be a pair of young to every pair of old birds when they leave us, he argues that the parent birds refuse to allow the young ones to inhabit the same place when they return. Reuben is as positive about it as possible," added I, laughing. "These swifts live under the eaves of the old church; and I do believe he greets them as old friends every year."
"I shouldn't venture to say that he was mistaken," said Mr. Harrod. "So many curious things happen among beasts and birds, and swifts are particularly amusing creatures. Reuben appears to be quite a naturalist."
I had quite forgotten my self-imposed attitude of defiance in the keen interest of this talk; but something in the tone of this remark roused it afresh.