176 
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 
