224 A BIRD-LOVER'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 I 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 rdle 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 heav- 

 en's gate? He a " scorn er 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. * 



1 While this book is passing through the press (April 30th, 



