The Wilson Snipe 



independent of his fellows, but in conscious rivalry with them, describes 

 great free circles hundreds of feet in extent, and when a sufficient height 

 has been attained, starts downward in a long glissade. Presently a weird 

 pulsating sound emerges, gains power and focus, till the ear-drums feel 

 the physical strain, and trails off again into silence: hoo hoo hoo HOO HOO 

 HOO HOO HOO hoo hoo hoo. The effect produced by several contestants, 

 each careening and charging about the open sky, is indescribably thrilling 

 and spookish. Dr. Brewster thinks the sound can be heard a mile away; 

 and I am willing to testify that it is the most eerie and penetrating sound 

 which the American swamps offer. 



Now, how is this uncanny sound produced? After closely studying 

 many of these "song" flights under 8-power binoculars, I have come to the 

 conclusion that the body of the sound is produced by the impact of air 

 upon the sharp lateral feathers of the tail, held stiffly, while the pulsa- 

 tions of sound are produced by the wings. At least it is certain that the 

 pulsations of sound are synchronous with the wing-beats. Moreover, the 

 sound is never produced save when and as the tail is spread to the utmost, 

 so that the two outer pairs of rectrices, which are much the shortest, are 

 thrown forward at right angles to the axis of the body. The sound begins 

 gradually, as while the tail is expanding, and closes with a smooth diminu- 

 endo as the tail is closing, and while the wings are sailing. Of course 

 the effort is confined to a downward flight, and that at a rather moderate 

 angle. When concluding a "song" cycle, the bird dives sharply to the 

 ground with wings uplifted and motionless, and lights with an easy 

 volplane. The hooting operation itself varies interminably in length 

 from one to five seconds, at the pleasure of the performer. The pulsa- 

 tions, or wing beats, will run three or four to the second — probably nearer 

 the latter figure. 



There are, to be sure, "things doing" in the swamps with such carry- 

 ings on overhead. But if all the oologists in California were to turn to 

 and hunt Jack-snipes' nests, their number would not be sensibly dimin- 

 ished through the years. Be the air above never so vocal, the finding of a 

 nest is rarely more than a fortunate accident. The author's turn came one 

 day in a foul swamp, much frequented by horses and cattle. I was wal- 

 lowing through ooze of indescribable richness, and making fretful com- 

 plaint of the fumes of marsh gas which welled up from the depths, when— 

 Psst! A feathered bomb fairly exploded in my face as I approached a 

 green tussock some two feet in diameter. This explosion ruse had doubt- 

 less availed to divert sundry "cow critters" on previous occasions of 

 imminence, and had sent some of them off, belike, snorting and blowing; 

 but the sordid human leaped forward, instead, to behold an authentic set 

 of Jack-snipe's eggs, four in number, reposing on a carefully prepared bed 



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