128 ADVENTURES AMONG BIRDS 



which catches the light at the right angle and shines 

 with loveliest colour, you may safely say that it was 

 a whinchat. A fugitive sound heard at a distance, 

 of so exquisite a purity and sweetness, so tender an 

 expression, that you stand still and hold your breath 

 to listen and think, perhaps, if it is not repeated, that 

 it was only an imagined sound. 



An even more characteristic sound of the high moor 

 than these small voices which are not listened to is 

 the curlew's voice: not the beautiful wild pipe nor 

 the harsh scream, the whaup's cry that frightens the 

 superstitious, but the gentler, lower, varied sounds 

 of the breeding season when the birds are talking 

 to one another and singing over their nests and eggs 

 and little ones. Best of all of these notes is the pro- 

 longed trill, which sounds low yet may be heard dis- 

 tinctly a quarter of a mile away or further, and 

 strongly reminds me of the trilling spring call of 

 the spotted tinamou, the common partridge of the 

 Argentine plains — a trill that is like a musical whisper 

 which grows and dwells on the air and fades into 

 silence. A mysterious sound which comes out of the 

 earth or is uttered by some filmy being, half spirit 

 and half bird, floating invisible above the heath. 

 I liked these invisible curlews, singing their low song, 

 better than the visible bird, mad with anxiety and 

 crying aloud when the nest was looked for. But the 

 curlew has one very fine aspect when, at your approach, 

 he rises up before you at a distance of three or four 

 hundred yards and comes straight at you, flying 

 rapidly, appearing almost silver-white in the brilliant 



