THE PARTBIDGE. 215 



I heard the drumming of a partridge, which is one of 

 the queer sounds of the forest that one hears towards 

 evening on a summer day. It commences slow at 

 first, like measured beating on a muffled drum. The 

 blows increase in rapidity, until in a quarter of a 

 minute they become so rapid that they are undij 

 tinguishable to the ear, and for another quarter of a 

 minute they roll like that same muffled drum beaten 

 by a nimble-handed drummer. There is a singularity 

 about the sound. You cannot tell whether it is near 

 or far off. For aught you can say, it may be twenty 

 rods or a quarter of a mile distant. And then, too, it 

 is somewhat difficult to tell from what direction it 

 comes. At first you think it is on this side of you 

 and then on that, and you will hear it more than once 

 or twice before you make up your mind positively as 

 to the direction of the sound. 



I listened until I was satisfied of the point from 

 which, in this instance, the sound came, and crept 

 carefully in that direction, intending to satisfy myself of 

 the manner in which a partridge makes this drumming 

 noise. After moving cautiously some thirty or forty 

 rods, I saw my bird standing upon a log, picking and 

 straightening out the feathers on his tail, and along on 



