142 Twelve Months With 



Awakened one summer night, I heard the 

 whistle of a whippoorwill, and after I began 

 counting it repeated the call 327 times. It then 

 paused a moment, evidently for breath, and pres- 

 ently resumed with as much apparent zest as 

 before. Mr. Burroughs relates a similar expe- 

 rience, where even a much larger number of 

 calls were given in rapid succession, without 

 intermission. 



"* * * Weirdly sounds the whippoorwill's wild 



rhyme, 

 These nights of summer time." 



A Canadian poet, Edward Burrough Brownlow, 

 has written one of the prettiest poems to this 

 quaint bird: 



"When early shades of evening's close 

 The air with solemn darkness fill, 

 Before the moonlight softly throws 

 Its fairy mantle o'er the hill, 



A sad sound goes 



In plaintive trill; 



Who hears it knows 



The Whip-poor-will. 



Repeated oft, it never grows 

 Familiar, but is sadder still, 

 As though a spirit sought repose 

 From some pursuing, endless ill. 



