SIDE UGHTS ON BIRDS 



senses of hearing and of sight are in subtle 

 alliance, and that the sounds that come to us with 

 clear significance in broad daylight lose something 

 of their character when they reach us from the 

 gloom. 



But fortunately most of the night-flyers an- 

 nounce their presence in no uncertain way. We 

 can never mistake the low, sibilant call-note of 

 the redwing, nor the sharp " chack-chack " of 

 the passing fieldfare. The peewit cries out its 

 own name in the darkness, and the plaintive 

 cadences of the golden plover, and the softly 

 repeated whistle of the redshank, have an in- 

 dividuality that makes confusion impossible. 

 When seen flying in the distance it is not always 

 easy to tell the curlew from the whimbrel, for the 

 difference in size is the only guide. But when 

 the wild " curl-ee-ee " or more properly " url- 

 ee-ee," for birds seem to be unable to pronounce 

 consonants, speaking of desolate moors and 

 marshes, comes, however faintly, through the 

 darkness, you can never mistake the larger bird 

 for its whistling relative — indeed, in view of the 

 similarity of the appearance of the curlew and the 

 whimbrel, one sometimes feels surprised at the 

 entirely different quality of their cries. 



Perhaps the most significant cries in the night 

 arise when the great flocks of wild geese go by 

 overhead, an incident, of course, common on the 

 East Coast in winter. Very often the great birds 

 move silently, but on occasion the ringing clamour 

 falls from the heights, suggesting an aerial pack 

 of hounds in full cry. Many superstitions have 

 gathered around these flocks of wild geese — 

 Gabriel Hoimds — as they were called — and as 

 they pass over the sleeping hamlet, the old wife 

 will stop her ears lest the devil's pack hunting 

 in the air should bring tidings of death. 



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