It is then that these birds congregate in vast companies, lining the telegraph-wires for miles, till they loop with their weight, or crowding upon every available foothold of some range of buildings. How irresistible the discipline of these little creatures is, as you look at them sitting there by the thousand, waiting for the signal to start on a journey the object and end of which is a mystery to all the young ones. You will see how impatient they are, how they keep on trying their wings by wheeling round in the air. With what restlessness they take short flights and resettle. And all this time, and up to the very last, the old ones keep on busily feeding the young, as if they knew what a trial was before them, and how urgent their need of all the strength possible. Here and there are broods hatched too young to join in the great Hegira, and here and there nestlings with some infirmity that unfits them for boisterous travel. These are found lingering in our islands all through October into November, but the great army of the swallows musters at the rendezvous punctually to date. And there they sit in their myriads, but the whole obedient as one, and lo! next morning, before the sun is up, they are gone, every one of them—gone towards the sea, towards the Nile and the Cape, gone till next Spring. For
“the year is overgrown,
Summer like a bird hath flown.”
