HILLSIVS 67 



at all. Year by year, in the late spring-time, she comes 

 back from her winter home under a tropic sun to the 

 well-remembered spot, and lays on the bare ground two 

 eggs of marvellous beauty. So well does her plumage 

 harmonise with the spot she rests on that there is small 

 chance of seeing her by daylight unless the near approach 

 of footsteps should drive her to take wing. Some- 

 times when disturbed, the nightjar will not rise from 

 the ground at all, but will scuttle off like a rabbit 

 to the shelter of some neighbouring thicket. Or it may 

 be that, having risen, she will pause in her flight to 

 feign lameness or a broken wing, in the hope of luring 

 you away. Should she settle in a tree, you may notice 

 that she usually perches, not across the bough, but along 

 it, keeping withal so still that it is not easy to dis- 

 tinguish her dull plumage from the branch itself. 



You will know the nightjar better when at the hour 

 of twilight she wakens from her sleep. Against a 

 narrow belt of saffron sky, over which the curtain of the 

 night is still undrawn, rise the dim outlines of far hills, 

 dark forms of giant elms, figures of tall poplars towering 

 over the landscape. On the near slopes grey vapours 

 gather, and flood the meadows like a phantom sea. 

 The sounds of day have ceased. Robin and thrush, and 

 even restless blackbird, all are still. Only a troop of 

 swifts, careering overhead, scream for the coming storm. 

 The voices of the home-returning rooks sound faint and 

 ghostlike as they float by unseen. The night is dark 

 and warm, with a suspicion of rain. White moths flit 

 to and fro across the shadows, and x now and then 



