A BI-MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



DEVOTED TO THE STUDY AND PROTECTION OF BIRDS 



Official Organ op The Auduiion Societies 



Vol. XXII May— June, 1920 No. 3 



Spring Thunder 



By H. E. TUTTLE, New Haven, Connecticut 



THE Bluebird's song on a warm day in late February, or the scream of 

 the Red-shouldered Hawk, sailing in slow circles in the cloudless heights, 

 wakes a vague longing for spring's greenery and the smell of last year's 

 pine needles under a summer sun. I love the Bluebird's faltering lyrics and 

 exult in the Hawk's defiance. The rigors of a New England winter have 

 quickened the pleasures of anticipation. 



But in April, from the birch thickets or along the stone wall of an abandoned 

 woodlot, comes a more thrilling summons. It throbs with exuberant energy, 

 beats out a stirring challenge to more sluggish hearts, and ends in a roar of 

 muffled thunder. This is the true song of the pulsing sap; here is the call to 

 more vigorous living. The Bluebird, and even the Red-shouldered Hawk, fly 

 south before the frosts have stripped the maples of their glorious liveries, but 

 the Ruffed Grouse is of stouter heart. They are but spring's harbingers; he is 

 the sturdy native that endures the winter's snows. Those who rise early on 

 spring mornings may hear the air tremble to the throbbing wing-beat of the 

 cock Partridge, and go their ways rejoicing for the inspiration of that impetuous 

 outburst. 



If your path lies along some forgotten 'tote-road' where the leaves are soft 

 with last night's dew, you may steal upon the drummer unaware. Standing 

 stiffly on a log that has lain dead for generations, he watches from a screen of 

 friendly birches. Head up and crest erect, he is the embodiment of unceasing 

 vigilance. The jeering cry of a Blue Jay is not unworthy of his attention; the 

 sudden jump of a chipmunk among the damp leaves does not betray him into 

 revealing motion. Assured that the Blue Jay's note is innocent of warning, he 

 turns slowly about, shifting his feet uneasily, as if to obtain a better stance 

 on the log. Partially squatting to steady himself, his head thrust forward, his 

 tail spread into a horizontal fan, he takes a quick outward and downward 

 stroke with his wings. For a fraction of a second they hang limp at his sides, 



