68 ^{MBLES OF A VOtMINIG 



goes past the musical hum of some night-roving 

 beetle. 



Suddenly among the trees starts a strange sound, a 

 low, clear rattle, like the trill of a tree-frog. Four or 

 five seconds it keeps on one note, then drops a little for 

 a moment, then rises again, and so continues for some 

 minutes at a stretch. It is the cry of the nightjar, the 

 sound indeed that has earned for it its name. 



Creeping cautiously along under the trees you are 

 ware that the bird is on the summit of a weather-beaten 

 fir, whose boughs are dark against the sky. The sound 

 continues, monotonous and unvaried, save for that 

 regular rise and fall. It stops short. The bird sails 

 silently down from its perch with a sort of swaying 

 motion like a paper kite, pausing a moment in mid-air, 

 with its wings up, like a pigeon swooping down upon 

 the dovecote. It is only visible against the sky, and 

 when it reaches the outline of the dark hill behind it 

 vanishes like a ghost. 



Earlier in the evening, while yet the light was clear, 

 you might have seen it wheeling round the trees like 

 a great swallow, now with its enormous mouth set 

 wide, perchance in chase of moth or beetle, now, uttering 

 as it flew, its monotonous and far-reaching cry. 



Seen only in the twilight, and never a familiar figure, 

 it is still a bird of many names. Some, like nightjar, eve- 

 churr, wheel bird, are suggestive of its voice. Others, 

 like dor-hawk and fern-owl, of its habits or its haunts. 

 Its title of goatsucker a name of long standing, though 

 altogether undeserved arose perhaps from its habit of 



