BIRD STORIES 



birds do when they stop to rest; for, instead of sitting 

 on a twig when he was not flying, he would settle as 

 if lying down. Sometimes he stayed on a large level 

 branch, not cross-wise like most birds, but the long way; 

 and when he did that, he looked like a humpy knot 

 on the branch. When there were no branches handy, 

 he would use a rail or a log or a wall, or even the ground; 

 but wherever he settled himself, he looked like a blotch 

 of light and dark, and one could gaze right at him with- 

 out noticing that a bird was there. That was the way 

 Mother Nomer did, too — clowns both of them and al- 

 wsijs ready for the wonderful game of camouflage! 



They had remarkable voices. There seemed to be 

 just one word to their call. I am not going to tell you 

 what that word is. There is a reason why I am not. 

 The reason is, that I do not know. To be sure, I have 

 heard nighthawks say it every summer for 3^ears, but 

 I can't say it myself. It is a ver^^ funny word, but a^ou 

 will have to get one of them to speak it for 3^ou ! 



They came by all their different kinds of queerness 

 naturally enough. Mis and Mother Nomer did, for it 

 seemed to run in the family to be peculiar, and all their 

 relatives had oddities of one kind or another. Take 

 Cousin Whip-poor-will, who wears whiskers, for in- 

 stance; and Cousin Chuck-will's-widow, who wears whis- 

 kers that branch. You could tell from their very names 



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