JULY DAYS 



would heed it, that this is not a proper 

 season for shooting. But in some north- 

 erly parts of our wide country it is wood- 

 cock now or never, for the birds bred 

 still further northward are rarely tempted 

 by the cosiest copse or half-sunned hill- 

 side of open woods to linger for more 

 than a day or two, as they fare south- 

 ward, called to warmer days of rest and 

 frostless moonlit nights of feeding under 

 kindlier skies. 



While the nighthawk's monotonous 

 cry and intermittent boom and the indis- 

 tinct voice of the whippoorwill ring out 

 in the late twilight of the July evenings, 

 the alarmed, half-guttural chuckle of the 

 grass plover is heard, so early migrating 

 in light marching order, thin in flesh but 

 strong of wing, a poor prize for the gun- 

 ner whose ardor outruns his humanity 

 and better judgment. Lean or fat, a 

 plover is a plover, but would that he 

 might tarry with us till the plump grass- 

 hoppers of August and September had 

 clothed his breast and ribs with fatness. 



Well, let him go, if so soon he will. 

 So let the woodcock go, to offer his best 

 to more fortunate sportsmen. What 

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