In the latter part of the last century I spent many days among Long Island marshes, paddling a homemade canoe. When night came I hauled the boat into the sedge, drew a couple of blankets over me and lay watching the stars until asleep. Often the last sound I heard was the sweet high pitched call of UPLAND PLOVER, a few ounces of flesh and feathers winging thru the mauve night toward those far pampas. 'Twas the mystery that enthralled. Perhaps a few tarried in the beach meadows and I experienced all the thrills of Big Game hunters when I stalked them in the dawn with my trusty single-barreled muzzle-loader. In later years when I sensed the spiritual quality of these gentle birds I regretted these episodes and found a deeper thrill looking thru binoculars at their trim, graceful forms.

Describing their remarkable flight song Pierce says they circle on still wings almost out of sight. First a few notes like water gurgling from a bottle, then the loud penetrating whip, whee-ee-you; then close their wings and shoot earthward like a falling star. A thrilling performance similar to that of the horned lark.