SWALLOWS
“We have whole tribes of helpers that devote themselves to the patient
search for insect eggs in the cracks of tree bark and in piles of dead
leaves, for larvæ between the scales of buds and in the worm-holes in
wood, and for insects lurking in narrow crevices where they hide from
their pursuers. These invaluable assistants of ours embrace the
magpies, nuthatches, wrynecks, climbers, tomtits, wrens, kinglets, and
many others. In the kind of hunting here referred to the bird is not
obliged to chase the game, to vie with it in swiftness; it is enough to
know how to find it in its hiding-place. For this a sharp eye and a
slender beak are necessary; wings are only of secondary importance.
“But now we come to other species of birds that hunt in the air, chase
their game on the wing, pursuing gnats and flies and butterflies, moths
and mosquitoes and beetles. They require a short beak, but one that
opens very wide and is pretty sure to catch insects as they fly—a beak,
in fine, that may be depended on to work almost of itself and without
an instant’s pause in the bird’s flight; a beak that, above all, is so
sticky inside that as soon as an insect’s wing grazes this viscous
lining it is caught fast in the glue-like substance. The beak of the
bat, that other hunter of insects on the wing, the bat’s beak, I say,
opening from ear to ear, may serve as a model in respect to the width
of its opening. But above all else the hunter must have swift wings
that never tire, that can fly as fast as the prey which is trying so
hard to escape, that can follow the bewildering zigzags of a moth
manœuvering to save its life. A cleft beak that opens wide and wings
that are strong and tireless—such must be the equipment of the bird
that pursues its prey in the open air.
“Chief among these hunters is the swallow, which may be called the
daylight bat, as the bat is the twilight swallow. Both chase flying
insects, following them in their endless dodgings and doublings and
snapping them up with yawning beak, then passing on without an
instant’s delay to the pursuit of others. But how much more pleasing in
appearance, how much swifter in flight is the swallow than that hunter,
the sad-looking bat! While we may compare their work and their way of
hunting, we cannot compare them in anything else. Buffon quotes Guéneau
de Montbéliard as saying:
“‘The air is the swallow’s appropriate element, and it is the nature of
the bird to be ever on the wing. It eats flying, bathes flying, and
sometimes even feeds its young when flying. It glides through the air
with no effort, with perfect ease, conscious of being in its own
domain. It explores aërial space in all its dimensions, as if to enjoy
it to the utmost, and its delight in the act is expressed by little
cries of rapture. It may be seen giving chase to flying insects and
following with supple agility their evasive and tortuous course; or it
may leave one to pursue another and snap up a third in passing; or,
again, it lightly skims the surface of land and water to catch any that
may be gathered there for the sake of coolness and moisture; or,
finally, it may in its turn be driven to flee with all speed before the
lightning-like onset of some bird of prey. Always in full control of
its movements even when flying at topmost speed, it is continually
changing its course, describing in the air a bewildering maze whose
paths cross, interlace, recede from and approach one another, meet,
wind, ascend, descend, interweave, and mingle in a thousand different
ways and after a plan so complicated as to defy representation to the
eye by the art of drawing and scarcely to lend itself to description
for the imagination through the medium of speech.’
“We have three kinds of swallows in France, of which the best known is
the martin, black above with glints of blue, and white beneath and on
the rump. It builds its nest in window-corners, under the eaves of
roofs, and on the cornices of buildings. The materials it uses are fine
soil, chiefly that which is deposited by earthworms, after digestion,
in little mounds over our fields and gardens. The swallow carries it, a
beakful at a time, mixes it with a little viscous saliva to make it
stick together, and lays it by courses until it takes the shape of a
hemisphere attached to the wall and provided with a small opening at
the top. Bits of straw give additional firmness to the masonry; and,
finally, the interior is lined with an abundance of little feathers.
The laying consists of four or five pure white eggs without any spots.
“The nests are used year after year by the same pairs of birds, being
recognized by them on their annual return in the spring and made as
good as new with a few repairs. If some are left vacant by reason of
the owners’ death in distant lands, new couples profit by the fact.”
“Don’t they ever quarrel over the old nests?” asked Jules.
“Very seldom. Swallows like to live in colonies, and their nests touch
one another sometimes to the number of hundreds on the same cornice.
Each couple recognizes its own nest without the slightest hesitation,
and scrupulously respects others’ property in order to have its own
respected. There is among them a deep feeling of joint responsibility,
and they help one another with as much intelligence as zeal.
Occasionally it happens that a nest is no sooner finished than it gives
way, either because the mortar used is not strong enough or because the
masons were in too great a hurry and had not the patience to let one
course dry before laying another, or for some other reason. On hearing
of the disaster the neighbors hasten to console the unlucky pair and
help them to rebuild. All set to work, bringing the best mortar, straw,
and feathers, and in forty-eight hours the nest is rebuilt. Left to
themselves, it would have taken the owners a fortnight to repair the
damage.”
“That’s the kind of friends in need I like to see!” declared Emile.
“But I have something still better to tell you. Let us suppose a
swallow has been so careless as to become entangled in a mesh of loose
threads, and the more frantically it struggles to escape the more
firmly it binds its fetters. With wings and claws held fast it is in
danger of perishing. Uttering piteous cries, it calls on its comrades
for help. All hasten to give aid, noisily making plans for relief and
working away with beak and talons until they finally unsnarl the tangle
and free the captive. The happy event is then celebrated with chirpings
of delight. That is what I saw with my own eyes, right here in the
garden, one day when Mother Ambroisine was bleaching some of the linen
thread she spins on her distaff.
“An author [6] of note tells us that he once witnessed something
similar. These are his words: ‘I saw a swallow that had unfortunately,
I know not how, caught its foot in a slip-knot tied in a string, the
other end of which was fastened to a roof gutter. The bird’s strength
was exhausted and it hung, crying, from the end of the string, with an
occasional effort to escape. All the swallows in the neighborhood had
assembled, to the number of several thousand. They formed a veritable
cloud, each one uttering cries of alarm and pity. After considerable
hesitation one of them hit on a plan for freeing their luckless
companion and communicated it to the others, whereupon they all set to
work. A space was cleared and every swallow within hail came, one after
another, as in a ring-game, and gave in passing a peck at the string.
These blows, all delivered at the same point, followed one another with
only a second’s interval or less. Half an hour of this work sufficed to
sever the thread and liberate the prisoner. But the entire company of
birds, with a few exceptions, stayed there until night, chattering away
incessantly, though no longer in anxious tones, but rather as if in
mutual congratulation and animated comment.’
“Again: ‘An insolent sparrow invades a swallow’s nest and likes it so
well it wishes to stay. The owners assail the intruder, but the latter,
having a stronger beak and being also protected by the ramparts of the
nest, easily repulses their attacks. Ha! so you won’t budge, then?
We’ll see about that. One of the two swallows remains to hold the
blockade while the other goes for help. The neighbors hasten to the
spot, consider the situation, deliberate on means to be employed, and
finally conclude that it is out of the question to hope to dislodge by
force an enemy so securely entrenched in the nest as in a strong
redoubt. There is but one opinion: the invader cannot be ousted from
the nest, but the proprietors must at least be avenged. No sooner said
than done. While a few courageous ones posted at the opening intimidate
the interloper with their cries, the others fetch a supply of their
usual mortar, soil moistened with saliva, and little by little close
the entrance to the nest.’”
“Who was the fool that time?” cried Jules, in high delight.
“It certainly was the sparrow, sealed up in its narrow prison and left
to perish.”
“Caught, you nest-robber!” Emile exclaimed, clapping his hands.
“The chimney-swallow or house-swallow, also called barn-swallow, has
chestnut-red forehead, throat, and eyebrows, a black back with violet
sheen, and a white breast and stomach. Its name of house-swallow is
given to it because it seeks man’s neighborhood and even nests inside
our houses, especially where there is but little commotion or noise.
Open and empty rooms, sheds and coach-houses, the eaves of roofs, the
under side of balcony floors, and the inside of tall chimneys are its
chosen nesting-places. The nest itself is made of moistened clay mixed
with straw and hay and furnished inside with feathers and dry grass. It
is in the shape of a half-cup wide open at the top. The eggs are five
in number, white with small brown and violet spots.
“The house-swallow is the most interesting of the tribe. It is the
farmer’s cheery companion and the guest of the barn, while the martin
prefers towns and the cornices of monuments. Its characteristic cry is
a sweet little song which the father, perched on the edge of the nest,
keeps repeating to the brooding mother to beguile the long hours of
incubation. This bird is found all over the world. It reaches us after
a long migration about the first of April, twelve days before the
martin and a month ahead of the swift.
“The sand-martin is smaller and of less frequent occurrence than the
other two swallows of which we are speaking. Its back is mouse-gray in
color, as are also its cheeks and a wide stripe across the chest, while
breast and stomach are pure white. With its beak and claws—poor tools
for such rough work did not energetic good will supply the
deficiency—it tunnels into steep sand-banks by the waterside, or into
the face of cliffs and the walls of quarries, making a hole with a
narrow entrance and extending in a winding passage for nearly two feet.
At the further end a little space is hollowed out and furnished with a
thick bed of straw, dry grass, and feathers, all heaped together with
no art. There are laid five or six slightly translucent white eggs. The
sand-martin perches only on rocks, to which it clings easily with its
long and pointed claws. It haunts the water’s edge, which it explores
in rapid flight, darting to and fro and snapping up the gnats attracted
by the coolness.”
“It is said,” remarked Jules, “that swallows take long journeys.”
“Yes, all our swallows migrate every year, not from a love of wandering
but from necessity. Many other birds, particularly those that live on
insects, do the same. Swallows, like bats, live entirely on flying
insects, and when cold weather comes these are lacking. What does the
bat do then to keep from starving?”
“It goes to sleep,” answered Emile.
“Yes, it closes as tightly as it can the draft in the vital stove—that
natural stove, you know, that gives us heat, movement, and animation by
burning up our blood with the help of air. The bat almost stops its
breath in order to economize the fuel stored up in its little veins and
make it last until the reappearance of insects at the approach of
summer. In a word, it goes to sleep in the depths of some grotto,
falling into an unconsciousness resembling death. Birds, however,
cannot thus save their fuel. Their little stoves are always burning
away under forced draft, because of the violent exercise of flying.
Their temperature, summer and winter, is forty-two degrees, centigrade,
whereas man’s is only thirty-eight. When such a fire has to be kept
going, imagine if you can take a six months’ nap because there was
nothing to eat in the larder. It is quite out of the question. What,
then, do birds do?
“Unable to do as the bat does, they form a bold resolve: they leave
their native land, which is about to be stripped of flying insects by
the cold, and go far away, sad to leave but not without the hope of
returning some day. They migrate, the strong helping the weak, the old
and much-traveled ones guiding the young and inexperienced. They form
in flocks and fly southward to Africa, where abundant food and a warmer
sun await them. With no compass but instinct to direct their course,
they cross the sea, the vast expanse of water in which only an
occasional islet offers them a halting-place. Many perish in the
crossing, and many arrive faint with hunger and spent with fatigue, but
they do arrive at last.”
“It must be a trying time for the swallows when the day for starting
comes,” Jules observed.
“A very trying time indeed, for the bird has to tear itself away from
its beloved haunts, the place where it was born, to face the fatigues
and dangers of a tremendous journey, a journey never before taken by
the greater number of the emigrants. In a general assembly the date of
departure is fixed for about the end of August in the case of martins
and sand-martins, and later, even as late as October, for
house-swallows. This being arranged, the martins gather for several
successive days on the roofs of high buildings. Every now and then
small groups detach themselves from the rest and circle about in the
air with anxious cries, taking a last look at their birthplace and
bidding it farewell; then they return to their companions and, we may
imagine, fall to chattering about their hopes and fears as they prepare
for the journey by a careful examination of their plumage, which they
oil a feather at a time. After several repetitions of these touching
farewells a plaintive twittering announces the fateful hour: they must
start. Launching themselves on their desperate adventure, they take
flight in a body toward the south.
“House-swallows, when the time for their departure approaches, hold a
consultation on some leafless tree, and almost always in the rain. The
emigrating flock numbers three or four hundred birds.”