WHIP-POOR-WILL 



25; 



In calling attention to some of the feath- 

 ered inhabitants of those few acres I 

 have no thought that the locality is special- 

 ly favored, overrun as it is by children, 

 picnickers and golfers. On the contrary, 

 I am convinced that on the outskirts of any 

 large city many more species than those 

 recorded may be found. Only the large 

 and more familiar birds have been named, 



those whose nests are easily found. If the 

 observer be ambitious he will find ample 

 employment for the leisure hours of more 

 than one summer vacation in following, 

 field glass in hand, the great variety of 

 sparrows, buntings and warblers, whose 

 coats so perfectly harmonize with the col- 

 ors of leaf and bark, and whose small bod- 

 ies may be hidden by a maple leaf. 



WHIP-POOR-WILL. 



IMO L. STOUT. 



The poem entitled "Whip-poor-will," in July Recreation, brings up old memories, and I enclose a 

 poem under the same caption which was written by a sister on her sick bed a short time before her death, 

 9 years ago. She was then 16. M. G. Stout, Mackinaw, 111. 



Mid-April has come, and I list for a call, 

 In the soft, hazy gloaming so still ; 



And I wait for the voice of a friend that I 

 love — 

 The song of the blithe whip-poor-will. 



But the autumn comes on, thy refrain 

 seems more sad, 

 As a plaintive note sounds in its trill ; 

 And the call that now comes from thy 

 mate on the tree 

 Is sweet as she sings "Whip-poor-will !" 



A sound from the thicket — I listen again — 



Oh, joy! and my heart seems to thrill 

 With an ecstasy sweet, as I hear the glad 

 notes, 

 "Whip-poor-will ! whip-poor-will ! whip- 

 poor-will !" 



Ah, I know of the treasures you cherished 

 so true, 

 In the nest at the foot of the hill. 

 Now you wait and you dream as we poor 

 mortals do, 

 When we list for a voice that is still. 



So loud and so clear, yet so earnest and 

 true — 

 Art thou calling thy love from the hill? 

 Yet call once again, a reply will soon come, 

 Now hearken, and hear "Whip-poor- 

 will !" 



For your birdlings have flown, while your 

 lonely hearts ache, 

 And your sons- on the night air so chill, 

 Sounds mournfully sweet, as you answer 

 and call 

 "Whip-poor-will ! whip-poor-will ! whip- 

 poor-will !" 



The months pass away, and my joy is 

 complete ; 

 For each evening, o'er treetop and rill, 

 When the sun has gone down, there comes 

 ever the song 

 Of the brave, cheery-voiced whip-poor- 

 will. 



My own yearning heart will cry out when 

 you're gone, 

 For with music its depths you did fill ; 

 And the hours will seem long, as I listen 

 in vain 

 For your sweet "Whip-poor-will ! whip- 

 poor-will !" 



But when spring comes again, may your 

 voices be heard 

 Through the blossoming valley so still ; 

 And may hearts be made glad as they wel- 

 come your song, 

 "Whip-poor-will ! whip-poor-will ! whip- 

 poor-will !" 



