WINTER NEIGHBORS. 19 
A friend of mine in a Southern city tells me of a 
red-headed woodpecker that drums upon a lightning- 
rod on his neighbor’s house. Nearly every clear, still 
morning at certain seasons, he says, this musical rap- 
ping may be heard. “ He alternates his tapping with 
his stridulous call, and the effect on a cool, autumn- 
like morning is very pleasing.” 
The high-hole appears to drum more promiscuously 
than does the downy. He utters his long, loud spring 
eall, whick — whick — whick — whick, and then be- 
gins to rap with his beak upon his perch before the 
last note has reached your ear. I have seen him 
drum sitting upon the ridge of the barn. The log 
cock, or pileated woodpecker, the largest and wildest 
of our Northern species, I have never heard drum. 
His blows should wake the echoes. 
When the woodpecker is searching for food, or lay- 
ing siege to some hidden grub, the sound of his ham- 
mer is dead or muffled, and is heard but a few yards. 
It is only upon dry, seasoned timber, freed of its bark, 
that he beats his reveille to spring and wooes his 
mate. 
Wilson was evidently familiar with this vernal 
drumming of the woodpeckers, but quite misinterprets 
it. Speaking of the red-bellied species, he says: “It 
rattles like the rest of the tribe on the dead limbs, 
and with such violence as to be heard in still weather 
more than half a mile off; and listens to hear the in- 
sect it has alarmed.” He listens rather to hear the 
drum of his rival or the brief and coy response of the 
female; for there are no insects in these dry limbs. 
On one occasion I saw downy at his drum when a 
female flew quickly through the tree and alighted a 
few yards beyond him. He paused instantly, and 
