Massachusetts Audubon Society 7 



three black ducks were noted flying over to the northwest, and as the after- 

 glow deepened, the woodcock began their weird calls in the orchard. 



Most wonderful and mysterious of all bird songs seems this love-making 

 performance of the woodcock, accompanied as it is by the marvellous aerial 

 gyrations, and given at the witching hour of sunset. We watch him as the 

 dusk deepens, barely making him out upon the ground as he stands among 

 the dried grasses. Then up he goes into the air like a rocket, flying straight 

 into the sunset, and giving a queer, whistling sound as he whirrs over our 

 heads. Climbing with a spiral motion, he ascends far above us till we can 

 only locate him by his gurgling notes. These grow fainter and fainter, till 

 suddenly with a downward pitch comes the outpouring of his ecstatic song, 

 while in long, meteor-like dives he descends toward the earth, dropping 

 almost at our feet, thence to renew his low, weird calls to his mate a few 

 yards away. After several such performances the two are seen to fly off^ 

 together, disappearing in the dusk. 



HUMMINGBIRDS. SUMMER OF 1919 

 By Grace Sherwood, Jefferson, Ohio. 



May 8th, I was sitting on the porch deep in a confidential chat with a 

 pet chickadee, when subconsciously I became aware of a very familiar 

 sound. When I roused myself enough to look, sure enough — and no wonder 

 — a hummingbird! He was busy on the blue-bells, but I got up and re- 

 sumed the occupation of shaking sugar into warm water, and filling a tiny 

 bottle. I hung it in an old holder that looked like a bunch of dried grass, 

 and very soon there was Mr. Bird. 



Next I saw him looking in the middle of a screen door the other side of 

 the house, where we hung a bottle the preceding season to keep it away from 

 the ants. I took another bottle, tied a string around it, and pinned it on 

 the door. I had scarcely got inside when he was there. Of course it was 

 evident he had been there before, but was it Ephraim? Had he lost his 

 distinctive sound ? 



It was a week before another bird came; meanwhile this one had the 

 time of his sweet young life. He ate when he pleased, and as much as he 

 pleased, with no one of his tribe to disturb or annoy. The next week two 

 females appeared — then it was fighting as usual. Soon arrivals were nu- 

 merous, among them Ephraim. I fell on his neck, while he fell on a bottle. 

 How hungry he was, and how glad I was to hear that personal, distinctive 

 sound of his! Of course there is no doubt but that some of the same birds 

 come back each year; the way they go to the same feeding-places with no 

 flower-like color to attract them is proof enough. The certainty of Ephraim 

 is a step beyond. He knows this place, and I know him. He has spent 

 two seasons here, and I impatiently await the third. Will he come again? 



Contrary to all previous experiences, male birds were more numerous 

 than females. I knew two besides Ephraim when I saw them. One very 

 pleasant creature, who always came to the screen door bottle at a certain 



