THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 



Bv T. GILBERT PEARSON 



%^t Rational Si&&omtion ot Audubon ^ocittit& 



EDUCATIONAL LEAFLET No. 73 



While walking along a country road one evening after the sun had set, 

 and darkness had all but fallen, I suddenly discovered some object on the 

 ground a few yards ahead. At almost the same moment it rose, and, on slow- 

 moving wings, flew over the fence and disappeared in the' gloom of the woods. 

 The flight was so silent, and the wings were so broad, it was difficult to believe 

 that it was not a great moth that had just departed from view. I knew, how- 

 ever, that I had disturbed a Whip-poor-will in the midst of its twilight dust- 

 bath. Evidently it had been trying for several minutes to find just the right 

 spot, for there in the soft earth were three slight but distinct hollows, such as 

 only a dusting bird would make. 



Soon afterward I heard it calling, or perhaps it was its mate, whip-poor-will, 

 whip-poor-will; the shouts came ringing through the darkness, six, eight, or 



perhaps twenty times repeated. Then, after a pause, the plain- 

 The Song tive but Stirring notes would again come up from the old apple 



orchard, and fill all the space round about the farm-house. 

 The still summer night seemed to belong to this strange bird of the shadows, 

 for its rhythmical cry took possession of the silences, and filled the listener with 

 contented exhilaration. All attempts to approach it that night were futile, 

 for its big, bright eyes evidently penetrated the shadows with ease, and, 

 long before we could even make out its form, it would fly to another perch 

 several rods away. Only when it announced its presence by calling did we 

 know its new position. Two or three times, however, we came near enough 

 to hear the low note, something like chuck, which immediately precedes the 

 first loud whip of its song. 



Ernest IngersoU, in his book "Wit of the Wild," says that a Whip poor- 

 will, while singing, "will often make a beginning and then seem to stop and 



try it over again, like a person practising a new tune; but 

 ops inging |.j^ggg interruptions really mean so many leaps into the air, 



with perhaps frantic dodges and a somersault or two, for the 

 snatching and devouring of some lusty insect that objects to the process." We 

 listened for this, but all the calls we heard were complete throughout each 

 performance. It was fully two hours after the sun had set before the last note 

 of this mysterious night-flyer was heard. Just before dawn it called again 

 several times, and the farmer's wife said she feared it was sitting on the stone 

 door-step. She was somewhat disturbed about this, and intimated that if 

 it were there the action would bring sorrow to the household. It seems odd 



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