224 A BIRD-LQVER'S APRIL. 
never ‘heard the woodcock’s evening hymn,” 
notwithstanding his knowledge of birds is a 
thousand-fold more than mine, as all students 
of American ornithology would unhesitatingly 
avouch were [ to mention his name. We waited 
till dark; but though Philohela was there, and 
sounded his yak two or three times, — just 
enough to excite our hopes, — yet for some 
reason he kept to terra firma. Perhaps he was 
aware of our presence, and disdained to exhibit 
himself in the réle of a wooer under our pro- 
fane and curious gaze; or possibly, as my more 
scientific (and less sentimental) companion sug- 
gested, the light breeze may have been counted 
unfavorable for such high-flying exploits. 
After all, our matter-of-fact world is surpris- 
ingly full of romance. Who would have ex- 
pected to find this heavy-bodied, long-billed, 
gross-looking, bull-headed bird singing at heavy- 
en’s gate? He a ‘“scorner of the ground”? 
Verily, love worketh wonders! And perhaps 
it is really true that the outward semblance is 
sometimes deceptive. To be candid, however, 
I must end with confessing that, after listening 
to the woodcock’s “ hymn” a good many times, 
first and last, I cannot help thinking that it 
takes an imaginative ear to discover anything 
properly to be called a song in its monotonous 
click, click, even at its fastest and loudest. 4 
1 While this book is passing through the press (April 30th, 
