As to the bird itself, it is very seldom seen, its color being so nearly like that of brown leaves, or the ordinary color of the carpeted bases of trees in the forest, that he is scarcely distinguishable. Once in a while you will come on him, however, in your rambles, when he spreads his brown wings, of a foot’s distension at least, and alights a few rods on, as before, upon some fallen tree trunk, or as likely as not upon the ground. He stays with us as long as our summer really lasts, and of all the birds that sing, his call is the clearest and most distinctive. The “whip-poor-will” has been celebrated by one of the best of our Canadian poets, Charles Sangster. He says: “Last night I heard the plaintive whip-poor-will, And straightway sorrow shot his swiftest dart; I know not why, but it has chilled my heart Like some dread thing of evil. All night long My nerves were shaken, and my pulse stood still And waited for a terror yet to come, To strike harsh discords through my life’s sweet song. Sleep came--an incubus that filled the sum Of wretchedness with dreams so wild and chill The sweat oozed out from me like drops of gall; An evil spirit kept my mind in thrall, And rolled my body up like a poor scroll, On which is written curses that the soul Shrinks back from when it sees some hellish carnival.” To us who are not so sensitive the mournful cry of the nightly whip-poor-will is not so depressing, but I am sure we are all glad to get this gleaning of a poet’s feelings when he hears the uncanny bird. The golden plover in July is nesting and watching along by the margin of our streams. By chance I happened at one time upon the nest of one situated about half-way under the end of an old log. The nest had been built without any preparation at all as to nest building. During the previous season grass had grown rank and tall about this old log, and the parent bird had simply trodden down the dry and sere grass, and formed an almost level space for the nest. There was but little attempt to hollow the nest even in a concave, as one would naturally suppose, to hold the eggs. Four little ploverets rewarded my gaze, and such ridiculous things they were, too. Scarcely any feathers yet, but just down, as it were, and great long legs, which appeared to be so far out of proportion to their wants that their appearance was absurd, indeed. They essayed to walk away, but it would seem that a plover must learn to balance himself, like a rope-walker. At this stage they grotesquely tipped forward mostly every time. They arose upon their feet, sometimes, but not so often, backwards.