WHIP-POOR-WILL 
A QUEER, shadowy bird, that sleeps all 
day in the dense wood and flies about 
through open country after dark as softly as 
an owl, would be difficult for any child to know 
were it not for the weird, snappy triplets of 
notes that tell his name. Every one knows him 
far better by sound than by sight. Whip- 
poor-wiil {chuck) whip-poor-will {chuck) whip- 
poor-will {chuck) he calls rapidly for about 
two hours, just after sunset or before sunrise 
from some low place, fluttering his wings at 
each announcement of his name. But you 
must be near him to hear the chuck at the end 
of each vigorous triplet; most listeners don’t 
know it is there. 
You might be very close indeed without 
seeing the plump bird, about the size of a robin, 
who has flattened himself lengthwise against 
a lichen-covered branch until you cannot tell 
bird from bark. Or he may be on a rock or an 
old, mossy log, where he rests serene in the 
knowledge that his mottled, dull dark-brown, 
gray, buff, black and white feathers blend 
perfectly with his resting place. He must 
choose a spot broad enough to support his 
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