212 
WILD WINGS 
the beach alone, for a parting look. The full moon had just 
risen from the ocean, flooding sea and beach with its silvery 
s|dendor. The exquisite scene made a profound impression 
on me, which was heightened by the jwesence of two little 
Sanderlings, feeding by moonlight. I sat down and watched 
them. The sparkling, phosphorescent wave would ripple up 
around their little feet, and they would run before it, and 
then race back again, as it retreated. They were so busy, so 
happy, and twittered one to the other, saying, in spirit, 
“ One little sandpiper and I,” 
while I felt it too. At length they darted off up the shore, 
but I still lingered to enjoy the moon, wave, and ocean, 
worshipping, I felt, in the beauty of holiness, until passing 
time compelled me to seek the fisher’s cottage. 
There is a peculiar fascination for me in the spring migra¬ 
tion of the Limicolae, for then the birds are decked in their 
beautiful vernal dress. Instead of a pale, bleached-out plum¬ 
age, the fashion is one of rich browns, reds, and black, with 
deep-tinted, striking breast-colors and markings. There is 
no finer place to observe this than the broad prairies of the 
W’est. There one will meet a number of the larger kinds in 
abundance, which he would look for in vain on the Atlantic 
coast. How the ]:)icture rises before my mind of the broncos 
jogging ewer a fire-swept prairie, about the middle of May, 
and the discovery of a flock of twenty Golden Plover but 
a few rods off, blending j^erfectly in color with the blackened 
ground, as they faced us with coal-black breasts. We stopped 
the horses to watch, yet they did not fly, as we feared they 
would, but resumed their feeding. They j^attered about, 
making their graceful plover-bows as they stooj^ed c|uickly 
for their insect-prey, showing us the golden-yellow spangles 
on their backs, and the clear white wreath of distinction 
