THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 97 



The whip-poor-will walks as awkwardly as a 

 swallow, which is as awkward as a man in a bag, 

 and yet she manages to lead her young about 

 the woods. The latter, I think, move by leaps 

 and sudden spurts, their protective coloring shield- 

 ing them most effectively. 



As the shadows deepen and the stars begin to 

 come out, the whip-poor-will suddenly strikes up. 

 What a rude intrusion upon the serenity and har- 

 mony of the hour! A cry without music, insist- 

 ent, reiterated, loud, penetrating, and yet the ear 

 welcomes it ; the night and the solitude are so 

 vast that they can stand it ; and when, an hour 

 later, as the night enters into full possession, the 

 bird comes and serenades me under my window 

 or upon my doorstep, my heart warms toward it. 

 Its cry is a love-call, and there is something of 

 the ardor and persistence of love in it, and when 

 the female responds, and comes and hovers near, 

 there is an interchange of subdued, caressing 

 tones between the two birds that it is a delight 

 to hear. During my first summer in my cabin 

 one bird used to strike up every night from a 

 high ledge of rocks in front of my door. At just 

 such a moment in the twilight he would begin, 

 the first to break the stillness. Then the others 

 would follow, till the solitude was vocal with 



