HAUNT OF THE EVEJAR 

 i 



WHEN the first white flake falls from the 

 hawthorn the immigrant birds of passage 

 all have come to the countryside. Almost 

 the last to arrive this year on the south- 

 western coast of England were the mysterious 

 nightjars, birds ever surrounded by romance 

 on account of their weird song and phantom 

 habits; and for me, after the experience 

 I had in the late spring, birds of wonder 

 and having a special claim to my affections. 

 It was night, and on the broad smooth 

 sands, whence the tide had ebbed, shone a 

 curved moon. As I passed by the ocean's 

 edge its outline shook in the sandy pools, 

 blackened and tarnished by seaweed and 

 still foam-bubbles. No clouds drifted in 

 heaven, there was no wind, the stars were 



pale in the luminous sky. Somewhere 

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