and whom I once had the good luck to see close by me in the
mulberry-tree. The wild-pigeon, once numerous, I have not seen
for many years.(1) Of savage birds, a hen-hawk now and then
quarters himself upon us for a few days, sitting sluggish in a tree
after a surfeit of poultry. One of them once offered me a near shot
from my study-window one drizzly day for several hours. But it
was Sunday, and I gave him the benefit of its gracious truce of
God.

(1) They made their appearance again this summer (1870).--J.R.L.

Certain birds have disappeared from our neighborhood within my
memory. I remember when the whippoorwill could be heard in
Sweet Auburn. The night-hawk, once common, is now rare. The
brown thrush has moved farther up country. For years I have not
seen or heard any of the larger owls, whose hooting was once of
my boyish terrors. The cliff-swallow, strange emigrant, that
eastward takes his way, has come and gone again in my time. The
bank-swallows, wellnigh innumerable during my boyhood, no
longer frequent the crumbly cliff of the gravel-pit by the river. The
barn-swallows, which once swarmed in our barn, flashing through
the dusty sun-streak of the mow, have been gone these many years.
My father would lead me out to see them gather on the roof, and
take counsel before their yearly migration, as Mr. White used to see
them at Selborne. *Eheu fugaces!* Thank fortune, the swift still
glues his nest, and rolls his distant thunders night and day in the
wide-throated chimneys, still sprinkles the evening air with his
merry twittering. The populous heronry in Fresh Pond meadows
has wellnigh broken up, but still a pair or two haunt the old home,
as the gypsies of Ellangowan their ruined huts, and every evening