THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. \)\) 



See how the nocturnal flies are tormenting the 

 herd, and with what dexterity he springs up and 

 catches them, as fast as they alight on the 

 animals. Observe how quiet they stand, and 

 how sensible they seem of his good offices, for 

 they neither strike at him, nor tread on him, 

 nor try to drive him away as an uncivil intruder. 

 Were you to dissect him, and inspect his 

 stomach, you would find no milk there. It is 

 full of the flies which have been annoying the 

 herd. The prettily mottled plumage of the 

 goat-sucker, like the owl, wants the lustre which 

 is observed in the feathers of the birds of day. 

 This at once marks him as a lover of the pale 

 moon^s nightly beams. There are nine species 

 here, (in the woods of South America.) The 

 largest appears nearly the size of the English 

 wood-owl. Its cry is so remarkable, that having 

 once heard it, you will never forget it. When 

 night reigns over these immeasurable wilds, 

 whilst lying in your hammock, you will hear the 

 goat-sucker lamenting like one in deep distress. 

 A stranger would never conceive it to be the cry 

 of a bird. He would say it was the departing 

 voice of a midnight murdered victim, or the 

 last wailing of Niobe for her poor children. 

 Suppose yourself in hopeless sorrow ; begin with 

 a high loud note, and pronounce " ha, ha, ha, 



F 2 



