And when these had vanished in the distance Graham heard a peewit wailing close at hand.
"When the Sleeper Wakes" by Herbert George Wells
Overhead an anxious peewit circled against the blue, and every now and then emitted its feeble cry.
"The Wheels of Chance" by H. G. Wells
TROCHILUS No, but when my master was turned into a peewit, he begged me to become a bird too, to follow and to serve him.
"The Birds" by Aristophanes
As our peewit takes its name from the sound of its voice, so does the teru-tero.
"A Naturalist's Voyage Round the World" by Charles Darwin
Above our heads, peewits were wheeling and crying, and lizards swarmed on the hard, cracked ground.
"By the Ionian Sea" by George Gissing
He could imagine it uttering the vibrant, plaintive cry of a peewit.
"The Best Short Stories of 1915" by Various
It always came back, "returning like the peewit," at uncertain intervals.
"Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 31, 1892" by Various
A peewit called by the water's edge, a cock crew from the farm-yard, and a dog barked lustily.
"For the Sake of the School" by Angela Brazil
It was Ram, and he was playing peewit.
"Cutlass and Cudgel" by George Manville Fenn
As soon as he is perceived, however, the peewits all combine in chasing him away.
"Country Walks of a Naturalist with His Children" by W. Houghton
O that I were
Where breaks the pure cold light
On English hills,
And peewits rising cry,
And gray is all the sky.
"English Hills" by John Freeman
And the peewit’s cry is borne on the wind,
though longing’s borne farther away.
How bitterly close one’s heart is confined
when the avocet migrates in May!
"May Night" by Jeppe Aakjaer
Here the Roman lived on the wind-barren lonely,
Dark now and haunted by the moorland fowl;
None comes here now but the peewit only,
And moth-like death in the owl.
"Night Is On The Downland" by John Masefield
I know a purple moorland where a blue loch lies,
Where the lonely plover circles, and the peewit cries,
Oh! do you yet remember that dear day in September,
The hills and shadowy waters beneath those tender skies?
"In Donegal" by Anna Johnston MacManus
This year in dough and hollow the stream's song sounds the same:
On every windy hillside the grasses burn like flame:
Where the empty air is loud with the peewit's lonely crying
And the call o' the moorland gale to the bird's call replying.
"Little Waxy" by Cicely Fox Smith
Nightly the spell is worked there, nightly the change comes down
When none is by but the peewit that cries o'er the moor-grass brown:
Sudden, at sound of cock-crow, swiftly, at dawn of day,
Rider and horse from the hedgerow melt like the mists away.
"The Horseman In The Night" by Cicely Fox Smith