THE DANCE IN THE ALDER SWALE 105 



It is all over, and I am standing, holding my 

 breath at the strange performance. Then there 

 sounds again that preparatory peent! pee,nt! and 

 I await the second burst : the looping spiral flight 

 upward, the swift drop, and the clear, low whistle 

 of love. And so the dance goes on as the dark- 

 ness thickens, until only a winnow of wings whirls 

 shrill toward the stars, and a sweet, pearly whistle 

 ripples down through the gloom. 



While waiting here in the twilight I see the last 

 year's nest of a wood-thrush in the leafless top of 

 a slender sapling. I have not heard Woodthrush 

 yet this spring. What if he should not return to 

 the strip of alder-bottom? Happily there is no 

 immediate danger. Yet I should miss the wild 

 love-dance of my woodcock almost as much as I 

 should the serene love-song of the thrush. I 

 should miss the woodcock himself even more. He 

 is so sly at hiding, and so unexpected when he 

 jumps up. There is a thrill in his break from 

 cover like the thrill one feels in the strike and 

 whirl of a trout. One jumps almost out of one's 

 shoes. Fifty thrushes would fifty times sweeten 

 the swale; my single pair of woodcocks would 

 keep it all wild and untamed. 



But they are going gone already from the 



