A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



Another trait our woodpeckers have that 

 endears them to me, and that has never 

 been pointedly noticed by our ornithologists, 

 is their habit of drumming in the spring. 

 They are songless birds, and yet all are 

 musicians ; they make the dry limbs elo- 

 quent of the coming change. Did you 

 think that loud, sonorous hammering which 

 proceeded from the orchard or from the 

 near woods on that still March or April 

 morning was only some bird getting its 

 breakfast ? It is downy, but he is not rap- 

 ping at the door of a grub ; he is rapping 

 at the door of spring, and the dry limb 

 thrills beneath the ardor of his blows. Or, 

 later in the season, in the dense forest or 

 by some remote mountain lake, does that 

 measured rhythmic beat that breaks upon 

 the silence, first three strokes following 

 each other rapidly, succeeded by two louder 

 ones with longer intervals between them, 

 and that has an effect upon the alert ear 

 as if the solitude itself had at last found 

 a voice, — does that suggest anything less 

 than a deliberate musical performance ^ In 

 fact, our woodpeckers are just as character- 

 istically drummers as is the ruffed grouse, 

 and they have their particular limbs and 



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