﻿A BI-MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

 DEVOTED TO THE STUDY AND PROTECTION OF BIRDS 



Official Organ of the Audubon Societies 



Vol. VIII May — June, 1906 No. 3 



With the Whip-poor-wills 



By A. D. WHEDON 



With photographs from nature by the author and R. W. Wales 



NO woodland note brings to me such a flood of recollections as the 

 call of the Whip-poor-will. Long before I knew the bird by sight 

 I found my greatest pleasure during the gathering twilight of May 

 evenings in lying by my open window and giving myself up to the lonely 

 charm of the sound. 



Of late years my acquaintance with this bird has grown. When passing 

 along some forest road as darkness was coming on I have sometimes caught 

 a glimpse of his dusky wing flitting away to deeper shades, and I have 

 always stopped to see and hear. Again, I have lain in camp in the deep 

 woods, and, from boughs overhead, his call has gone to dreamland with 

 me. Thus we have had occasional meetings, but not until the past spring 

 did our acquaintance become intimate. 



Not many miles from my home is a district, which, for Iowa, is wild 

 and rough. We call it Turkey Creek, from the small stream that winds 

 through it to the Iowa River. Both streams have cut their valleys deep into 

 the limestones, forming high, precipitous bluffs and long, rocky ledges. 

 Along this little stream are found the choicest wild flowers, and in these 

 woods dwell our most timid and seclusive birds. 



For years I have used a camera to record some of the phenomena which 

 I meet in my rambles afield. This spring a friend joined me on these ex- 

 cursions, his major interest, as mine, being with the birds. The morning 

 of the 20th of May last found us tramping over these thickly wooded 

 hills, pushing our way through the dense undergrowth and climbing over 

 dead logs and branches in search of a subject for study. Springtime was 

 surely holding sway, covering winter's traces with all haste. The branches 

 above us were half hidden by young leaves of green, while down on the 

 earth beneath our feet still lay those that were faded and dead, crumbling 

 to mold and the possibility of the green of years to follow. Every open was 

 crowded with spring flowers. 



