WHIP-POOR-WILL 



A QUEER, shadowy bird, that sleeps all 

 day in the dense wood and flies about 

 through open country after dark as softly as 

 an owl, would be difficult for any child to know 

 were it not for the weird, snappy triplets of 

 notes that tell his name. Every one knows him 

 far better by sound than by sight. Whip- 

 poor-will {chuck) whip-poor-will {chuck) whip- 

 poor-will {chuck) he calls rapidly for about 

 two hours, just after sunset or before simrise 

 from some low place, fluttering his wings at 

 each announcement of his name. But you 

 must be near him to hear the chuck at the end 

 of each vigorous triplet; most listeners don't 

 know it is there. 



You might be very close indeed without 

 seeing the plump bird, about the size of a robin, 

 who has flattened himself lengthwise against 

 a lichen-covered branch until you cannot tell 

 bird from bark. Or he may be on a rock or an 

 old, mossy log, where he rests serene in the 

 knowledge that his mottled, dull dark-brown, 

 gray, buff, black and white feathers blend 

 perfectly with his resting place. He must 

 choose a spot broad enqugh to support his 



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