THE DANCE IN THE ALDER SWALE 101 



and thus destroy the race of woodcocks here for- 

 ever. 



The gunners had been eager but one of the 

 birds, by some miracle, had escaped. And there 

 he went humming through the cold March dusk, 

 and all my world seemed changed. 



He would induce some young, unmated female 

 woodcock on her way north to remain with him, 

 I hoped, and there would yet be a woodcock home 

 in the swale. 



At first I feared lest this one might be a female 

 and might be lured away. Then I feared that 

 this one might be a migrant himself, who would 

 halt only to feed that night and go on. But the 

 next day I found him along the stream, and I knew 

 by the way he got to cover that he was on familiar 

 ground and meant to stay. 



What a queer, comical-looking bird he is! If 

 nature ever had any feeble-minded offspring, you 

 would surely put Woodcock down for one. But he 

 has his full share of good bird sense. He only 

 looks foolish. The trouble with his looks is partly 

 due to his nocturnal habits. Night does not seem 

 the birds' natural wake-time, and those that turn 

 it into day seem to take on some peculiar appear- 

 ance tlie owl his ridiculous show of wisdom, and 



