68 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



really at home. The woods where I do not find him 

 seem to want something, as if suffering from some neg- 

 lect of Nature. And then he is such a splendid success, 

 so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the cold and 

 the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fer- 

 vency in midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and 

 promises a heavy storm, he will complacently sit down 

 and allow himself to be snowed under. Approaching 

 him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow 

 at your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, 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, when, in the still April mornings, or toward 

 nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. He 

 selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, 

 but a decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the 

 preference to old oak-logs that are partially blended 

 with the soil. If a log to his taste cannot be found he 

 sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes resonant be- 

 neath 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 



