BIRDS 
37 
in faded black beside him,—generally in 
the early part of the day, he seems 
literally to vomit up his notes. Ap¬ 
parently with much labor and effort, they 
gurgle and blubber up out of him, falling 
on the ear with a peculiar subtile ring, as 
of turning water from a glass jug, and 
not without a certain pleasing cadence. 
Neither is the common Woodpecker 
entirely insensible to the wooing of the 
spring, and, like the Partridge, testifies 
his appreciation of melody after quite a 
primitive fashion. Passing through the 
woods, on some clear, still morning in 
March, while the metallic ring and tern 
sion of winter are still in the earth and 
air, the silence is suddenly broken by 
long, resonant hammering upon a dry 
limb or stub. It is Downy beating a 
reveille to Spring. In the utter stillness 
and amid the rigid forms we listen with 
pleasure, and as it comes to my ear 
oftener at this season than at any other, 
I freely exonerate the author of it from 
the imputation of any gastronomic mo¬ 
tives, and credit him with a genuine musi¬ 
cal performance. 
