Page:Bird-lore Vol 08.djvu/113

 With the Whip-poor-wills By A. D. WHEDON With photographs from nature by the author and R. W. Wales NO woodland note brings to me such a flood of recollections as the call of the Whip-poor-will. Long before I knew the bird by sight I found my greatest pleasure during the gathering twilight of May evenings in lying by my open window and giving myself up to the lonely charm of the sound. Of late years my acquaintance with this bird has grown. When passing along some forest road as darkness was coming on I have sometimes caught a glimpse of his dusky wing flitting away to deeper shades, and I have always stopped to see and hear. Again, I have lain in camp in the deep woods, and, from boughs overhead, his call has gone to dreamland with me. Thus we have had occasional meetings, but not until the past spring did our acquaintance become intimate. Not many miles from my home is a district, which, for Iowa, is wild and rough. We call it Turkey Creek, from the small stream that winds through it to the Iowa River. Both streams have cut their valleys deep into the limestones, forming high, precipitous bluffs and long, rocky ledges. Along this little stream are found the choicest wild flowers, and in these woods dwell our most timid and seclusive birds. For years I have used a camera to record some of the phenomena which I meet in my rambles afield. This spring a friend joined me on these ex- cursions, his major interest, as mine, being with the birds. The morning of the 20th of May last found us tramping over these thickly wooded hills, pushing our way through the dense undergrowth and climbing over dead logs and branches in search of a subject for study. Springtime was surely holding sway, covering winter's traces with all haste. The branches above us were half hidden by young leaves of green, while down on the earth beneath our feet still lay those that were faded and dead, crumbling to mold and the possibility of the green of years to follow. Every open was crowded with spring flowers.