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said they had heard that.
“And the Whip-poor-will,” added the canopy expert. “But you expect that. I woke up and heard a chat doing his strange song, if you can call it a song,” she added, then, “Wonderful.”
The ‘song* of the Yellowbreasted Chat is made up of squawks, whistles, and soft crow-like caws and a medley of harsh whoit or kook. It is strange indeed when heard in daytime; errie and mysterious at night.
The call of the Yellowbilled Cuckoo is equally unmusical and unbird-like. It consists of a rapid, throaty series of notes that are a far cry from the cuck-oo, cuck-oo of the clock which imitates the call of the European Cuckoo to which our species is related.
Rain crows they were called in rural North Carolina when I was growing up there; the long succession of “ka-kaka” ending in a guttural kowpkowp was the bird’s way of announcing rain. Is it true? Does the call of the cuckoo predict rain? I don’t know.
But back to morning conversation in a West Virginia mountain cove.
“The Field Sparrow was best,” added an Alexandria teacher after a silence filled with remembering. “Beautiful, beautiful,” he said softly, shaking his head.
I had nothing to add. I could only listen and wish I had spent the night in a tent and heard all those birds break the silence with their calls and songs.
That breakfast conversation set me to thinking and
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