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WHIP-POOR-WILL 



When feathered holiday-makers are away in their 

 crowded haunts and the remaining Warblers and 

 Finches in sombre attire are making their dilatory way 

 southward the insistent carol of a Whip-Poor-Will 

 seems to arrest the retreat of the passing year. Close 

 to the tent, with regular rhythm and unvarying 

 interval, he sings away to the lonely night, without 

 the inspiration of the many voices that answered him 

 in spring and summer. A Screech-owl weirdly 

 disturbs the repose of the woods, and the endless 

 gurgling of the rapids is lost for a time in the long, 

 expressionless call of the Loon. Frogs that boomed 

 in resonant chorus from the long reach of the marsh 

 are silenced by the chill of a late September night. 

 The loud calls that make the interrupted silence more 

 weird seem an inspiration from the wakeful moon 

 struggling even to penetrate the dew-damp canvas 

 roof, but the Whip-Poor-Will's note has a bright 

 levity, suggesting the open day and the protracted 

 summer in spite of its association with the lonely 

 shades of evening. Other swift gleaners of the air 

 have gone south, where insect activity is unceasing. 

 The hardy sojourners of the arctic shores are making 



