224 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



the singer flies after her on muffled wing. We shall 

 be nearer them in the wood of guelder-roses, where 

 the lamps of the glow-worms are twinkling. It is a 

 haunted wood. Now the reeling is on the right, now, 

 without any interval for changing, on the left ; now 

 just beneath us among the hazels, now far away across 

 the stream ; now clicking like a new winch, now purring 

 like a very long-winded cat. Then surely some one 

 is sitting in a quiet bush to startle us by clapping 

 together his hollowed hands, while a confederate high- 

 wayman acknowledges the signal with a cry of "Co-ic, 

 co-ic " from another bush. It is just the fairies of the 

 wood making the most of a very balmy night following 

 the first hot day of the year. We lean very quietly 

 against a gate between the wood and the mowing- 

 field, where a little light smudges the dark alleyway, 

 and wait for the fairies to declare themselves a little 

 less ambiguously. 



" Co-ic, co-ic," the mellow cry breaks out suddenly 

 close under our feet. There is something sitting in 

 the light-smudged alleyway and croaking thus mel- 

 lowly. A toad for certain. It does not stand up on 

 its legs, but sprawls on its stomach. It shuffles a little 

 farther into the light, and again cries " Co-ic, co-ic." 

 But we can now see that though it has no legs it is 

 bird-shaped. We can even make out the big, soft, 

 lunar markings, resembling the stains and lines on 

 dead wood, that belong to the night-jar ; we even 

 think we can see a little of the bristles- that fringe its 

 mouth and enable it to catch its flying food so easily. 

 Then, having croaked once or twice more, it lifts itself 

 from the ground in some miraculous way for it takes 

 no run or spring as other birds have to do skims 



