196 BIRD-LAND ECHOES. 



strewn with broken masses of parti-colored jasper 

 with thrifty grass growing between them. Not 

 having seen these birds in numbers for some time, I 

 laid my archaeology aside, as I do upon every pre- 

 text, and went plover-hunting. Up hill and down 

 dale I followed that persuasive whistle, but not until 

 the afternoon was well advanced did I have a chance 

 to plainly see the birds. It was not, as I at first 

 supposed, the call of one bird that I had heard, but 

 of many ; and after I found my way back to camp, 

 I learned that these plovers were abundant in every 

 direction. Through the day they had eluded me, but 

 they did not later, and I often saw them running over 

 bare ground or perched on the top rail of a fence or 

 on a stone wall, but never in a tree. Towards the 

 cool of the evening they would come boldly out, and, 

 while not noisy, whistled now and then. There is a 

 peculiarity about their call that is not easily described. 

 It is as hollow, un-bird-like, and weird as the far-away 

 hooting of an owl ; yet it is musical and one does 

 not tire of it. As I sat by my camp-fire, smoking, 

 this call brought up a somewhat sobering train of 

 thought, yet not an unpleasant one. As the night 

 wore on and the light of the camp grew brighter, 

 the plovers retired as if frightened by the unusual 

 sight, and I did not hear them again until towards 

 the "wee sma' " hours, when the fire was dead, my 

 associates asleep, and through the canvas of our 

 tent came the mournful plaint of the little red owl 

 and what I took to be the whistle of these same up- 

 land birds passing by, but far overhead. At this 



