DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. 153 



the second ; and hardly had I gone a hundred 

 feet beyond where the first one fell, when, to my 

 astonishment, three more birds rose at about 

 twenty-five yards. In less than an hour from the 

 time I crossed the fence I had sixteen plover, all 

 well-grown birds and in fine condition. 



As suddenly as it began, the shooting stopped. 

 It was too good to last. Here and there across 

 the sky and along the horizon's farthest rim a 

 thread of gray was winding out of sight, while, 

 from no one could tell where, came that soft, 

 searching sound that seemed never so sweet as 

 when all hope of another shot was gone. But no 

 more gray rose above that corn, and vainly on 

 the next day did I tramp it until it needed rc- 

 hoeing to insure half a crop. The birds were 

 once more themselves, and my luck was one of 

 those accidents of the field that seldom befall. 



Golden plover made themselves attractive by 

 filling a serious gap in the shooting of the year. 

 They used to visit the plowed fields far back 

 from the Atlantic coast, and furnish fine sport 

 where now no wing is seen or whistle heard. 

 The mellow twitter of the woodcock had died 

 away in the swamp, while the sharper whistle of 



