“What is its mate?”
“The bird it lives with.”
“It's afraid of us. It's not like other birds. Is it a real bird, mum? Or one out of the sky?”
“I think it's real. Shall we go on and see if we can find out what's the matter?”
“Yes.”
They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle, vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those shrill cries. Little Gyp said:
“Mum, could we speak to it? Because we're not going to hurt nothing, are we?”
“Of course not, darling! But I'm afraid the poor bird's too wild. Try, if you like. Call to it: 'Courlie! Courlie!”'
Little Gyp's piping joined the curlew's cries and other bird-songs in the bright shadowy quiet of the evening till Gyp said:
“Oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over there in that corner—it's got a nest! We won't go near, will we?”