88 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



at your feet, scattering the flakes in all di- 

 rections, and goes humming away through 

 the woods like a bomb-shell, a picture of 

 native spirit and success. 



His drum is one of the most welcome 

 and beautiful sounds of spring. Scarcely 

 have the trees expanded their buds, in the 

 still April mornings, or toward nightfall, 

 when you hear the hum of his devoted 

 wings. He selects not, as you would pre- 

 dict, a dry and resinous log, but a decayed 

 and crumbling one, seeming to give the 

 preference to old oak-logs that are partly 

 blended with the soil. If a log to his taste 

 cannot be found, he sets up his altar on a 

 rock, which becomes resonant beneath his 

 fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge 

 drum? It is the next thing to catching a 

 weasel asleep, though by much caution and 

 tact it may be done. He does not hug the 

 log, but stands very erect, expands his ruff, 

 gives two introductory blows, pauses half a 

 second, and then resumes, striking faster and 

 faster till the sound becomes a continuous, 

 unbroken whir, the whole lasting less than 

 half a minute. The tips of his wings barely 

 brush the log, so that the sound is produced 

 rather by the force of the blows upon the 



