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XIV
THE CHIMNEY SWIFT EVERY kind of bird
is adapted to get its living in a particular way. It is strong in some
respects, and weak in others. Some birds have powerful legs, but can hardly
fly; others live on the wing, and can hardly walk. Of these flying birds none
is more common than the chimney swift, or, as he is improperly called, the
chimney swallow. No one ever saw him sitting on a perch or walking on the
ground. In fact, his wings are so long, and his legs so short and weak, that if
he were to alight on the ground, he would probably never be able to rise into
the air again. He hardly seems to
need a description, and yet I suppose that many persons, not to say people in
general, do not know him from a swallow. His color is sooty brown, turning to
gray on the throat. His body, as he is seen in the air, is shaped like a
bobbin, bluntly pointed at both ends. If he is carefully watched, however, it
will be noticed that he spreads his tail for an instant whenever he changes
suddenly the direction of his flight. In other words, he uses his tail as a
rudder. He shoots about the
sky at a tremendous speed, much of the time sailing, with his long, narrow
wings firmly set, and is especially lively and noisy toward nightfall. Very
commonly two or three of the birds fly side by side, cackling merrily and
acting very much as if they were amusing themselves with some kind of game. They feed on the
wing, and have wide, gaping mouths perfectly adapted to that purpose. As their name
implies, they build their nests and pass the night mostly in chimneys, although
in the wilder parts of the country they still inhabit hollow trees. Numbers of
pairs live together in a colony. One of the chimneys
of a certain house near the Charles River, in Newton, Massachusetts, has for
many years been a favorite resort of swifts. I have many times visited the
place to watch the birds go to roost. Little by little they gather in a flock,
as twilight comes on, and then for an hour or more the whole company, hundreds
in number, go sweeping over the valley in broad circles, having the chimney for
a centre. Gradually the circles become narrower, and at the same time the
excitement of the flock increases. Again and again the birds approach the chimney,
as if they meant to descend into it. Then away they shoot for another round. At length the going
to roost actually begins. Half a dozen or a dozen of the birds drop one by one
into the chimney. The rest sweep away, and when they come back, a second
detachment drops in. And so the lively performance goes on till the last
straggler folds his wings above the big black cavity and tumbles headlong out
of sight. The swift makes his
nest of twigs, and as he cannot alight on the ground in search of them, he is
compelled to gather them from the dead limbs of trees. Over and over again you
will see the bird dart against such a limb, catching at a twig as he pauses for
the merest instant be fore it. It is difficult to be sure whether he succeeds
or not, his movements are so rapid, but it is certain that he must often fail.
However, he acts upon the old motto, “Try, try again,” and in course of time
the nest is built. And an extremely pretty nest it is, with the white eggs in
it, the black twigs glued firmly together with the bird’s own saliva. |
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