TO A. L. B.
FROM G. A. AND N. A.
CONTENTS.
| page | ||
| I. | The Night-jar | [1] |
| II. | Prophetic Autumn | [10] |
| III. | Our Winged House-fellows | [17] |
| IV. | A Neighbourly Gossip | [26] |
| V. | A Rabbit of the World | [33] |
| VI. | The Adder’s Siesta | [42] |
| VII. | A Flight of Quails | [49] |
| VIII. | In Leafless Woods | [58] |
| IX. | A Butterfly Episode | [65] |
| X. | The Frozen Pond | [74] |
| XI. | The Gnarled Pine-tree | [81] |
| XII. | Ivy in the Copse | [90] |
| XIII. | A Desperate Struggle for Life | [97] |
| XIV. | Coltsfoot Flowers | [106] |
| XV. | A Heather Episode | [113] |
| XVI. | The Chrysalis Year | [122] |
| XVII. | A Summer Stroll | [129] |
| XVIII. | A Moorland Fire | [138] |
| XIX. | The Arcadian Donkey | [145] |
| XX. | A Life-and-Death Struggle | [153] |
| XXI. | The Shrike’s Larder | [160] |
| XXII. | Nests and No Nests | [167] |
| XXIII. | The Crouch Oak | [176] |
| XXIV. | A Spotted Orchis | [183] |
| XXV. | The Root of the Matter | [192] |
| XXVI. | The Devil’s Punchbowl | [199] |
| XXVII. | The Lark in Autumn | [207] |
| XXVIII. | The Squirrel’s Harvest | [215] |
| XXIX. | A Drained Fishpond | [223] |
| XXX. | An Interview with a Cock-sparrow | [230] |
| XXXI. | The Green Woodpecker | [237] |
| XXXII. | The Harebell | [244] |
| XXXIII. | The Untamable Shrew | [251] |
Moorland Idylls
I.
THE NIGHT-JAR.
We sat late on the verandah last night, listening to the low trilling croon of the night-jar. It was a balmy evening, one of the few this summer; the sunset was lingering over the heather-clad moors, and the lonely bird sat perched on one bough of the wind-swept pine-tree by Martin’s Corner, calling pathetically to his mate with that deep passionate cry of his. I know not why, but the voice of the night-jar seems to me fuller of unspoken poetry than that of any more musical and articulate songster. Away down in the valley a nightingale was pouring his full throat among the oak-brush; but we hardly heeded him. Up on the open moorland, in the twilight solitude, that grey bird of dusk sat keening and sobbing his monotonous love-plaint; and it moved us more than all the nightingale’s gamut. I think it must be because we feel instinctively he is in terrible earnest. Those profound catches in the throat are the very note of true love; they have in them something of high human passion. And we could see the bird himself, too, on his half-leafless perch, craning his neck as he crooned, and looking eagerly for his lady-love. It was a delicious moment. We murmured as we sat George Meredith’s lines—
“Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping