146 WILD SPORTS OF THE HIGHLANDS. [CHAP. xvm. 



country, while the cuckoo frequents the wooded glades and banks 

 of the rivers and burns ; flitting from tree to tree, alighting 

 generally on some small branch close to the trunk, or chasing 

 each other, uttering their singular call. So much has been 

 written respecting their habit of laying their egg in the nest of 

 some other bird, that I can add nothing to what is already known. 

 In this country they seem to delight in the woods on the hill sides 

 by the edge of loch or river, where I constantly hear their note 

 of good omen. When the young ones are fledged, they remain 

 for a week or two about the gardens or houses, perching on the 

 railings, and darting off, like the flycatcher, in pursuit of passing 

 insects. 



The nightjar is a summer resident hero, building its nest or 

 rather laying its eggs, for nest it has pone in some bare spot 

 of ground, near the edge of a wood, and seldom quite within it. 

 The eggs are of a peculiarly oval shape. The nightjar, during 

 the daytime, will lie flat and motionless for hours together on 

 some horizontal branch of a. tree near the ground, or on some 

 part of the ground itself which exactly resembles its own plumage 

 in colour. In this manner the bird will allow a person to ap- 

 proach nearly close to it before it moves, although watching 

 intently with its dark eye to see if it is observed. If it fancies 

 that you are looking at it, up it rises straight into the air, and 

 drops again perpendicularly in some quiet spot, with a flight 

 like that of an insect more than of a bird. With the shades of 

 evening comes its time of activity. With rapid and noiseless 

 flight the nightjar flits and wheels round and round as you take 

 your evening walk, catching the large moths and beetles that 

 you put into motion. Sometimes the bird alights in the path 

 near you, crouching close to the ground, or sits on a railing 

 or gate motionless, with its tail even with its head. Frequently, 

 too, these birds pitch on a house-top, and utter their singular 

 jarring noise, like the rapid revolving of a wheel or the rush of 

 water, and the house itself appears to be trembling, so powerful 

 is their note. It is a perfectly harmless, indeed a useful bird ; 

 and I would as soon wantonly shoot a swallow as a nightjar. 

 I admire its curiously-mottled plumage, and manner of feeding 

 and flying about in the summer and autumn evenings, which 

 make it more interesting when alive than it can possibly be when 



