“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.” CHAPTER XXX SWIFTS AND NIGHT-JARS “The swift is that large black swallow that flies in flocks on summer evenings and utters a shrill cry as it passes. Hunting insects on the wing is its occupation. It has a very short beak that opens wide, a big gullet, always coated with a glue that holds the captured game, long and pointed wings which enable it to cover in continuous flight eighty leagues an hour, and piercing eyes capable of seeing a gnat at a hundred meters’ distance, or even farther. Every insect that ventures into the upper air is lost: the swift’s open beak is a living trap, a trap that advances rapidly to swallow up the tiny prey. “If the bird has little ones, it sometimes stows away its prey in its cheek-pouches and, when they are full, returns to its nest to feed these provisions to the hungry mouths waiting to be filled, discharging through its beak the accumulated flies, moths, and beetles. “What a slaughter of twilight-flying insects takes place when the screaming flocks of swifts fly hither and thither, circling about in the calm glow of sunset! What an onrush of whirring wings! What dash and eagerness! How animated the scene! Some fly merely as chance dictates, letting themselves glide gently through the air for the mere pleasure of the motion; others describe intertwining circles without number; others, again, soar aloft on motionless wings or let themselves fall from dizzy heights as if wounded and helpless; still others follow a straight course, racing toward some distant goal and then returning for a fresh start; and, finally, there are those that go whirling in noisy companies about some lofty building. But what of this one that darts across our vision in such hot haste? It flashes past with three strokes of the wings and is lost in the haze of the distance. What impetuosity, children, what amazing speed!” “I have often wished I could fly when I was watching those birds,” said Emile. “If I only had their wings to carry me to those blue mountains we see from here, how I should like to go flying to the top of that highest peak and then come back as quickly as I went!” “That wish, my boy, is common to us all; every one must envy the swift its wings, but certainly no one would ever think of envying it its feet.” “Why?” “Because they are so misshapen and the legs are so short that they cannot be used for walking. All four toes point forward. That tells you the swift does not perch, being unable to grasp the supporting branch, but must cling to walls for a brief rest, after which it must take flight again, starting with a falling movement as bats do. Guéneau de Montbéliard tells us this: