During all this time, the parents keep driving about, within a few feet of the entrance, and endeavour, by many winning gestures, to induce their charge to follow them. The second bird also, after sitting for some time, as if distrustful of its powers, retires, and the first again appears. Opening and shutting his wings, and often half inclined again to retire, he, at length, summons up all his resolution, springs from the nest, and, with his self-taught pinions, cleaves the air. He and his parents, who are in ecstasies, return to the nest, and the second young one presently musters courage and joins them. And now begins a day of real enjoyment; they sport chiefly about the tree-tops till seven in the evening, when all re-enter the nest. In several instances I have seen the neighbours add their inducements to those of the parents, when the young were too timid to leave their home. If the happy day prove fine, they seldom return to the nest till sunset; if otherwise, they will come back two or three times. On one occasion, when the young were ready to fly, but unwilling to take the first leap, the parents had recourse to a little stratagem, both ingenious and natural. The he-bird held out a fly at about four inches from the entrance to the nest. In attempting to take hold of it, they again and again nearly lost their balance. On another occasion, the mother bird, trying this plan to no purpose, seemed to lose patience, and seizing one of them by the lower mandible, with the claw of her right foot, whilst it was gaping for food, tried to pull it out of the nest, to which, however, it clung like a squirrel. But the young, every one of them, fly in time, and a right joyous holiday they all have together. [Sidenote: _The Autumn Migration._] So the summer comes to an end; and towards the middle of September, the great family cares being over, and the young having attained to an age capable of undertaking the fatigues of migration, that mysterious impulse, strong as life itself, and probably affecting them like some sickness—the necessity to exchange one country and climate for another—comes upon them. Under this influence, they congregate together in immense numbers, every neighbourhood seeming to have its place of assembly—the roofs of lofty buildings, or the leafless boughs of old trees: here they meet, not only to discuss the great undertaking, but to have a right merry time together—a time of luxurious idleness, lively chatterings, singing in chorus their everlasting and musical _cheep, cheep_, eating and drinking, and making ready for the journey before them.