The Open Air 



the right hand. One comes over, and as he flies 

 lie jerks a wing upwards and partly turns on his 

 side in the air, rolling like a vessel in a swell. He 

 seems to beat the air sideways, as if against a wall, 

 not downwards. This habit makes his course appear 

 so uncertain; he may go there, or yonder, or in a 

 third direction, more undecided than a startled snipe. 

 Is there a little vanity in that wanton flight? Is 

 there a little consciousness of the spring-freshened 

 colours of his plumage, and pride in the dainty touch 

 of his wings on the sweet wind ? His love is watch- 

 ing his wayward course. He prolongs it. He has 

 but a few yards to fly to reach the well-known feed- 

 ing-ground by the brook where the grass is short; 

 perhaps it has been eaten off by sheep. It is a straight 

 and easy line as a starling would fly. The plover 

 thinks nothing of a straight line; he winds first with 

 the course of the hedge, then rises aslant, uttering his 

 cry, wheels, and returns; now this way, direct at me, 

 as if his object was to display his snowy breast; 

 suddenly rising aslant again, he wheels once more, 

 and goes right away from his object over above the 

 field whence he came. Another moment and he 

 returns; and so to and fro, and round and round, 

 till with a sidelong, unexpected sweep he alights by 

 the brook. He stands a minute, then utters his cry, 

 and runs a yard or so forward. In a little while a 

 second plover arrives from the field behind. He 

 too dances a maze in the air before he settles. Soon 

 a third joins them. They are visible at that spot 

 because the grass is short, elsewhere they would be 

 hidden. If one of these rises and flies to and fro 

 almost instantly another follows, and then it is, 

 indeed, a dance before they alight. The wheeling, 

 maze-tracing, devious windings continue till the eye 



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