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General Meade had reoccupied the country, and Colonel Mohun was transferred from hospital to Fort Delaware, as a prisoner of war. "I have informed you, general," continued Mr. Nighthawk, smiling, and turning the rim of his black hat between his fingers, "that Colonel Mohun was one of my best friends.
Strange as this seems, the parent birds are so near the color of earth and rock that it is very difficult to find them when they are sitting, the young when hatched are equally invisible, and the eggs themselves look like two little stones for there are never more than two. I will show you a Nighthawk in my cabinet, and you will see for yourselves how nicely the colors match ground and rocks."
To be brief, I am anxious to procure a certain document in Swartz's possession." "A certain document?" I said, looking intently at the speaker. "Exactly, colonel." "Which Swartz has?" "Precisely, colonel." "And which he stole from the papers of Colonel Darke on the night of Mohun's combat with Darke, in the house near Carlisle?" Mr. Nighthawk looked keenly at me, in turn.
"B'lieve there's going to be a big storm. I do hope Freckles will hurry." Her chin was quivering as a terrified child's. She lifted her bonnet to replace it and brushed against a bush beside her. WHIRR, almost into her face, went a nighthawk stretched along a limb for its daytime nap. Mrs. Duncan cried out and sprang down the trail, alighting on a frog that was hopping across.
There was no denying that it was his voice. He always talked through his nose or so it sounded. And one couldn't mistake it. Chirpy Cricket began to think that after all he would rather not have a talk with Mr. Nighthawk. He certainly sounded terrible! Meanwhile Mr. Nighthawk alighted in a tree right over Chirpy's head, and settled himself lengthwise along a limb. He was, indeed, an odd person.
Both are of about the same size and color. Both sit lengthwise on limbs. Both are weird creatures that sleep by day and hunt by night. But the nighthawk has a V-shaped patch of white on his throat; the large mouth of the whip-poor-will is fringed with bristles. The nighthawk has a patch of white extending through his long wings; the whip-poor-will has none.
I passed through it, and found myself at the foot of a rough stairway, occupying half of a narrow passage. Ascending, not without more than one creak, which, I must confess, sent a tingle through my nerves, I reached the upper landing, found myself in front of a closed door, and beside this door encountered the warning hand of Nighthawk. "Look!" he said.
But instead of sleeping, he was wide awake and thinking and thinking. You see early the night before Boomer the Nighthawk had told Peter that Sammy Jay was up in the far-away Old Pasture. Boomer had seen him going to bed there and had come straight down to tell Peter.
"Leave out the 'leftenant, my dear Mr. Alibi; and call me 'colonel' it is shorter," I said, laughing, as I looked at the queer figure. "And so you have not seen Swartz lately? He made an appointment to meet Nighthawk here." "Made an app'intment, did he, leftenant least ways, colonel?" "Yes." "With Mr. Nighthawk?" "Yes." "Well, I reckon they are both dead, or they'd 'a' kept their app'intment."
"Thus does the Ruffed Grouse drum up his mate, as the Woodpecker hammers or the Thrush sings. You remember the booming sound made by the wings of the Nighthawk, when the air whizzed through them? When Bob White and his Grouse brother fly, their wings make a whirring noise that is equally startling." "And does his mate understand that the drumming is meant to call her?"
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