DRAGON'S BLOOD 219 



there a more discouraging day for a collector of bird- 

 songs. The year was dying of rheumy age. On the 

 trees still hung a few dank, blotched leaves, while 

 the sodden ground plashed under foot and a leaden 

 mist of rain covered everything. Yet at the edge of 

 the very first field that I started to cross, a strange 

 call cut through the fog, and I glimpsed a large black- 

 and-white bird crossing the meadow with the dipping 

 up-and-down flight of a woodpecker. It was the hairy 

 woodpecker, the big brother of the more common 

 downy, and a bird that usually loves the depths of 

 the woods. Hardly had it alighted on a wild-cherry 

 tree, when an English sparrow flew up from a nearby 

 ash-dump and attacked the new comer. The harassed 

 woodpecker flew to the next tree and the next, but 

 was driven on and away each time by the sparrow, 

 until finally, with another rattling call, it flew back 

 to the woods from whence it had come. A moment 

 later a starling alighted on the same tree, unmolested 

 by its compatriot. 



I followed the fields to a nearby patch of woods. 

 It is small and bounded on all sides by crowded roads, 

 but at all times of the year I find birds there. As I 

 reached the edge of the trees white-skirted juncos 

 flew up in front of me. Mingled with their sharp 

 notes, like the clicking of pebbles, came the gentle 

 whisper of the white-throated sparrow, and from a 

 nearby thicket one of them gave its strange minor 

 song. For its length I know of no minor strain in 

 bird-music that is sweeter. Like the little silver 

 flute-trill of the pink-beaked field sparrow, and the 



