40 A DRUMMER WITHOUT A DRUM, 
chickens are hatched, the male produces that ex- 
traordinary sound called ‘drumming.’ Again and 
again have I sat and watched the proceeding. 
There is a solemn quiet—an almost deathlike 
silence—pervading these mighty wilds of the far 
North-West, unlike anything we can conceive 
where the hand of civilisation has been busy. The 
bird squats on a log or fallen tree, motionless, as 
though it had no life; suddenly, all the feathers 
are, as it were, reversed; tail erect, like a strut- 
ting turkey-cock; the ruff round its neck stands 
out, stiff and rigid, and the wings droop on either 
side of the log as if broken. They slowly vibrate, 
and then produce a sound, loud and clear, like 
the thrum of a double-bass string; faster and 
faster it comes, as the wings move with greater 
rapidity, until the beats have no distinctness, 
and the sound has become a throbbing hum. 
He suddenly ceases, and after a few minutes’ 
rest goes through the same performance. 
Perhaps the stillness‘I have referred to induces 
one to imagine the sound to be louder than it 
really is; but if one did not see the bird, and did 
not know whence the sound came, a fertile brain 
could easily imagine it some demon drummer in 
active employment. For what purpose this 
sound is produced I am by no means clear: 
