no OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



Usually it is not until the gold begins to pass 

 that I notice the nighthawk, though he may have 

 been circling and crying "peent, peent" all the 

 afternoon. If you can catch sight of him before 

 the light fades too much you will see the white 

 bar which crosses each wing beneath and looks 

 exactly like a hole, as if the bird, had transparen- 

 cies in his pinions as has the polyphemus moth. 

 Many a summer afternoon I have seen night- 

 hawks circling erratically above Boston Common, 

 and there their cry has sounded like a plaint. 

 No doubt these birds fly there by choice and bring 

 up their young on the tops of Back Bay buildings 

 because they prefer the place, but this has not 

 prevented a tinge of melancholy in their voices. 

 Like many another city dweller they may take 

 habit for preference, but the longing for the free- 

 dom of the woods, though unconscious, will voice 

 itself some way. The nighthawk's cry, falling 

 from the high gold of the waning sunset to dusky 

 pasture glades, has no note of melancholy but a 

 soothing sleepiness about it that makes it a lul- 

 laby of contentment. I rarely hear him after 

 dark. I fancy he goes higher and higher to keep 

 in the soft radiance of the fading glow. Only 

 once have I ever seen one sky-coasting, falling 



