Two things about my family in the old barn aroused my curiosity—­what they were doing there by day, and how they got out so quickly when alarmed.  The only way it seemed possible for them to dash out on the instant, as they did, was to fly straight through.  But the holes were too small, and no bird but a bank-swallow would have attempted such a thing.

One day I drove the birds out, then crawled in under a sill on the opposite side, and hid in a corner of the loft without disturbing anything inside.  It was a long wait in the stuffy old place before one of the birds came back.  I heard him light first on the roof; then his little head appeared at one of the holes as he sat just below, against the side of the barn, looking and listening before coming in.  Quite satisfied after a minute or two that nobody was inside, he scrambled in and flew down to a corner in which was a lot of old hay and rubbish.  Here he began a great rustle and stirring about, like a squirrel in autumn leaves, probably after insects, though it was too dark to see just what he was doing.  It sounded part of the time as if he were scratching aside the hay, much as a hen would have done.  If so, his two little front toes must have made sad work of it, with the two hind ones always getting doubled up in the way.  When I thumped suddenly against the side of the barn, he hurled himself like a shot at one of the holes, alighting just below it, and stuck there in a way that reminded me of the chewed-paper balls that boys used to throw against the blackboard in school.  I could hear plainly the thump of his little feet as he struck.  With the same movement, and without pausing an instant, he dived through headlong, aided by a spring from his tail, much as a jumping jack goes over the head of his stick, only much more rapidly.  Hardly had he gone before another appeared, to go through the same program.

Though much shyer than other birds of the farm, he often ventures up close to the house and doorway in the early morning, before any one is stirring.  One spring morning I was awakened by a strange little pattering sound, and, opening my eyes, was astonished to see one of these birds on the sash of the open window within five feet of my hand.  Half closing my eyes, I kept very still and watched.  Just in front of him, on the bureau, was a stuffed golden-wing, with wings and tail spread to show to best advantage the beautiful plumage.  He had seen it in flying by, and now stood hopping back and forth along the window sash, uncertain whether to come in or not.  Sometimes he spread his wings as if on the point of flying in; then he would turn his head to look curiously at me and at the strange surroundings, and, afraid to venture in, endeavor to attract the attention of the stuffed bird, whose head was turned away.  In the looking-glass he saw his own movements repeated.  Twice he began his love call very softly, but cut it short, as if frightened.  The echo of the small room made it seem so different from the same call in the open fields that I think he doubted even his own voice.