Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 17 September 1915
A curious thing happened here yesterday. I am writing in a densely wooded Welsh valley, facing the cloud-veiled heights of Cader. The post brought, enclosed in a small matchbox, a pipistrelle; it was sent from Somerset, and left there on the 13th. In spite of its long journey in so small a box it was slumbering when it reached me, but later it awoke. About 1 30 in the afternoon I placed it on the rough-cast of the wall, and in a few moments it took wing, at once circling round and over the neighbouring trees, and apparently feeding, for flies were abundant. At that time, though many martins were fly-catching, there were, of course, no bats about, but to my surprise in little more than ten minutes it was joined by another bat of its own species. They flew about for some time, though not close together. A bat takes some time to rouse from its diurnal sleep; how then did the stranger manage to communicate with a sleeping pipistrelle, safe in its resting-place? It is hard to say, but if by voice, it is evident that the Somerset dialect of the chiropteran voice is understood by the Celtic bats.
Source: Guardian Environment