128 T,HE NIGHTJAR: OR FERN OWL. 



testify to Nature their intention of praising their 

 creator; when the man and the maid, who have 

 taken sweet counsel together in a stroll through 

 the woods instead of attending Whit-Sunday 

 evening service, and who, like the rest of those 

 that perish, have acted as troglodytes during 

 the fury of the storm, sally forth from the 

 shelter of a bank and hasten homewards in the 

 gloaming, fearful of the lateness of the hour; 

 when the new moon sails high in the heavens, 

 and the soft west wind causes a miniature 

 shower to fall from every pine and silver birch 

 on to the knee deep bracken and drooping 

 bluebells. 



At such a time as this, and in such a locality, 

 the wavering churr of the fern owl is bound to 

 arrest attention, even if the bird is not itself 

 seen sailing or flapping its wings over its back 

 between us and the lowering sky. I had often 

 seen nightjars, had listened to their humming 

 on warm evenings, when the landrail responded 

 with its unvarying call, which had I thought a 

 complaining scrape in it, and noted the contrast 

 between the querulous and discordant voice from 

 the rich meadow, and the droning content 

 uttered by the nightjar from the high elms on 

 the other side of the road. 



I had often tried, in the gathering dusk, to 

 watch their wheeling forms as they played 

 round me in their erratic hawking after insects. 

 I had often had their eggs brought to me by 

 country children. But never, until this Whit- 

 Sunday evening, had I found one myself. The 



