next day, when the same
tactics were repeated. Once a leaf fell upon one of the young birds and
nearly hid it. The young are covered with a reddish down, like a young
partridge, and soon follow their mother about. When disturbed, they gave
but one leap, then settled down, perfectly motionless and stupid, with
eyes closed. The parent bird, on these occasions, made frantic efforts
to decoy me away from her young. She would fly a few paces and fall upon
her breast, and a spasm, like that of death, would run through her
tremulous outstretched wings and prostrate body. She kept a sharp eye
out the mean while to see if the ruse took, and, if it did not, she was
quickly cured, and, moving about to some other point, tried to draw my
attention as before. When followed she always alighted upon the ground,
dropping down in a sudden, peculiar way. The second or third day both
old and young had disappeared.

The whip-poor-will walks as awkwardly as a swallow, which is as awkward
as a man in a bag, and yet she manages to lead her young about the
woods. The latter, I think, move by leaps and sudden spurts, their
protective coloring shielding them most effectively.

* * * * *

As the shadows deepen and the stars begin to come out, the
whip-poor-will suddenly strikes up. What a rude intrusion upon the
serenity and harmony of the hour! A cry without music, insistent,
reiterated, loud, penetrating, and yet the ear welcomes it; the night
and the solitude are so vast that they can stand it; and when, an hour
later, as the night enters into full possession, the bird comes and
serenades me under my window or upon my doorstep, my heart warms toward
it. Its cry is a love-call, and there is something of the ardor and
persistence of love in it, and when the female responds, and comes and
hovers near, there is an interchange of subdued, caressing tones between
the two birds that it is a delight to hear. During my first summer in my
cabin one bird used to strike up every night from a high ledge of rocks
in front of my door. At just such a moment in the twilight he would
begin, the first to break the stillness. Then the others would follow,
till the solitude was vocal with their calls. They are rarely heard
later than ten o'clock. Then at daybreak they take up the tale again,
whipping poor Will till one pities him. One April morning between three
and four o'clock, hearing one strike up near my window, I began counti