We asked him one day if there was
any bird in America that the kingbird couldn't whip. What about the
sandhill crane? Could he whip that long-legged, long-billed fellow?
"A crane never goes near kingbirds' nests or notices so small a bird,"
he said, "and therefore there could be no fighting between them." So
we hastily concluded that our hero could whip every bird in the
country except perhaps the sandhill crane.
We never tired listening to the wonderful whip-poor-will. One came
every night about dusk and sat on a log about twenty or thirty feet
from our cabin door and began shouting "Whip poor Will! Whip poor
Will!" with loud emphatic earnestness. "What's that? What's that?" we
cried when this startling visitor first announced himself. "What do
you call it?"
"Why, it's telling you its name," said the Yankee. "Don't you hear it
and what he wants you to do? He says his name is 'Poor Will' and he
wants you to whip him, and you may if you are able to catch him." Poor
Will seemed the most wonderful of all the strange creatures we had
seen.
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