I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof.  It offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild geese.  Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar.

It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely.  They are always a surprise.  You look, and there against the dull sky they move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping.  But I never see a string of them winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger crawling the clouds.

My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too.  Several times, through the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear.  One spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, headed north.  It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very warm.  I could see that the geese were hot and tired.  They were barely clearing the church spires.  On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, until almost over me, when something happened.  The gander in the lead faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, turned back toward the bay.

It was instant and complete demoralization.  A stronger gander, I think, could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer exhaustion.

Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the flock had reached the center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of the streets.  Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces.

There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination as their migration:  the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers—­all are suggestive of instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and full of mystery.  Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written to a bird begins: 

     Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

          Thy solitary way?

The question, the mystery in that “certain flight” I never felt so vividly as from my roof.  Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl passing.  Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark.  One night I remember particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so high in the blue.

Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough.  But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the starlit sky, they passed—­whither? and how guided?  Was the shining dome of the State House a beacon?  Did they mark the light at Marblehead?