DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. 1 57 



hundred yards," he was liable to shoot at my 

 flock if I did not hurry. 



How pretty this plover looks in its soft com- 

 binations of brown, black, gray, and white, 

 black feet and bill, and white stripe over the eye! 

 And pretty when it wheels and the light flashes 

 on its glossy back dotted with gold, and its 

 brownish tail barred with gray. What wonder 

 we sometimes hastened out before the storm had 

 cleared, and shivered in the wet grass to see this 

 little visitor spin around the fields! But when 

 the purple of the lingering meadow-beauty and 

 the soft blue of the lobelia brighten beneath sun- 

 light from a clear sky, you need no longer watch 

 for specks on the horizon or over the woods 

 where the butternut is turning a golden hue 

 beside the reddening persimmon. For low down 

 they now come over the hedgerows, as if they 

 would alight upon the crimson masses of the 

 woodbine that entwine the old cedar posts. 

 And over the fence on the other side of the field 

 comes another line of little dark bodies with hazy 

 wings quivering on each side. Now there is the 

 crack of a gun from among the red berries of a 

 clump of wild rose, three birds come whirling over 



