MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



i. 



THE NIGHT-JAR. 

 WE sat late on the verandah last night, 



o ' 



listening to the low trilling croon of the 

 night-jar. It was a balmy evening, one of 

 the few this summer ; the sunset was linger- 

 ing over the heather-clad moors, and the 

 lonely bird sat perched on one bough of 

 the wind-swept pine-tree by Martin's Corner, 

 calling pathetically to his mate with that 

 deep passionate cry of his. I know not 

 why, but the voice of the night-jar seems 

 to me fuller of unspoken poetry than that 

 of any more musical and articulate songster. 



I B 



