IN THE CATSKILLS 



His drum is one of the most welcome and beau- 

 tiful sounds of spring. Scarcely have the trees ex- 

 panded their buds, when, in the still April morn- 

 ings, or toward nightfall, 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, strik- 

 ing faster and faster till the sound becomes a contin- 

 uous, 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 air and upon his own 

 body as in flying. One log will be used for many 

 years, though not by the same drummer. It seems 

 to be a sort of temple and held in great respect. 

 The bird always approaches on foot, and leaves it 

 in the same quiet manner, unless rudely disturbed. 

 He is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. 

 It is difficult to approach him by stealth; you will 

 try many times before succeeding; but seem to pass 

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