212 WILD WINGS 



the beach alone, for a parting look. The full moon had just 

 risen from the ocean, flooding sea and beach with its silvery 

 splendor. The exquisite scene made a profound impression 

 on me, which was heightened by the presence of two little 

 Sanderlings, feeding by moonlight. I sat down and w r atched 

 them. The sparkling, phosphorescent wave would ripple up 

 around their little feet, and they would run before it, and 

 then race back again, as it retreated. They were so busy, so 

 happy, and twittered one to the other, saying, in spirit, 



" One little sandpiper and I," 



while I felt it too. At length they darted off up the shore, 

 but I still lingered to enjoy the moon, wave, and ocean, 

 worshipping, I felt, in the beauty of holiness, until passing 

 time compelled me to seek the fisher's cottage. 



There is a peculiar fascination for me in the spring migra- 

 tion of the Limicolse, for then the birds are decked in their 

 beautiful vernal dress. Instead of a pale, bleached-out plum- 

 age, the fashion is one of rich browns, reds, and black, with 

 deep-tinted, striking breast-colors and markings. There is 

 no finer place to observe this than the broad prairies of the 

 West. There one will meet a number of the larger kinds in 

 abundance, which he would look for in vain on the Atlantic 

 coast. How the picture rises before my mind of the broncos 

 jogging over a fire-swept prairie, about the middle of May, 

 and the discovery of a flock of twenty Golden Plover but 

 a few rods off, blending perfectly in color with the blackened 

 ground, as they faced us with coal-black breasts. We stopped 

 the horses to watch, yet they did not fly, as we feared they 

 would, but resumed their feeding. They pattered about, 

 making their graceful plover-bows as they stooped quickly 

 for their insect-prey, showing us the golden-yellow spangles 

 on their backs, and the clear white wreath of distinction 



