pitching, zigzag flight and the velocity of a 

 bnllet, whistling, as he falls, a low, pearly trill of 

 love that smothers in the whir of his alighting 

 wings. 



It is all over, and I am standing, my held 

 breath coming in gasps. Then there sounds 

 again that measured, preparatory peent ! peent I 

 and I await the second burst, the looping spiral 

 flight, the drop, and the clear, low whistle of 

 love. And so the dance goes on as the darkness 

 thickens, until only a winnow whirls shrill 

 toward the stars, and a sweet, pearly whistle 

 ripples down through the gloom. 



While waiting there in the twilight I saw the 

 last ye^ar's nest of a wood-thrush in the leafless 

 top of a slender sapling. I had not heard Wood- 

 thrush yet this spring. What if he should not 

 return to the strip of alder-bottom? Happily 

 there is no immediate danger. Yet I should 

 miss the wild love-dance of my woodcock almost 

 as much as I should the serene love-song of the 

 thrush. I should miss the personality of my 

 woodcock even more. He is so elusive, so unex- 

 pected, so suggestive of bog and stream. There 

 is a thrill in his break from cover like the thrill 

 [221] 



