is the highway for the crows of Ossipee and 
North Conway. Somewhere a robin was 
singing— singing about a spring sunset in 
New England and the swelling elm buds; 
bluebirds too were warbling, an.l only an 
obstinate bank of snow on the north side 
of a wall and the muddy road showed how 
' j a te had been our release from the grip of 
winter. 
fry-M by; . 
Na tube About Bos toe 
iii. 
BT RALPH HOFFMANN 
O F all the performances to which a 
student of birds can look forward, 
the flight-song of the woodcock has 
the greatest fascination. The 
“stunt” is in itself remarkable—a heavy, 
clumsy looking bird, who spends most of his 
life on the ground, Is moved by tlie season to 
mountaloft and be a lark! The stage-setting, 
too, heightens the feeling of expectancy 
with which one awaits any new experi¬ 
ence. No matter how often I hear a 
woodcock, the same feeling comes over 
me, as at the theatre before the play be¬ 
gins. The bell rings, the music stops, 
and the curtain rises on who can tell 
what scene of enchantment or mystery. 
At this season of the year you must be 
on the woodcock ground by a little after 
six. The sun has already set, but far up 
toward the zenith rosy streamers of 
eloud are still floating. Robins are sing¬ 
ing, and from the gray birches come the 
rich notes of fox-sparrows, repeating 
their vespers. In the marshes, innumer¬ 
able hylas are piping, in an almost deafen¬ 
ing chorus of shrill and incessant sound, 
while from the pools in the woods comes 
the discordant twanging of wood frogs. 
As the red fades from the clouds, the 
robins gradually stop singing, and begin 
to call to each other. The twilight has 
been Insensibly deepening, and the trees 
and rocks in the pasture become more 
and more indistinct. A couple of dark 
forms startle us, flying low and silently— 
a pair of black ducks going to their feed¬ 
ing grounds in the swampy meadow. At 
last even the robins are silent. Sudden¬ 
ly from the birches in the hollow below 
us, comes a single, penetrating “peent,” 
like a night-'hawk's note, but even more 
vibrant. 
In a moment the note is repeated, 
less loud this time as the bird changes 
his position and turns his back upon 
us. Now we have to wait patiently 
till he has worked himself up to the 
requisite enthusiasm. If you care to, you 
can pass the time by counting the 
“peents”; one bird repeated the note 123 
times before he began his flight. Sud¬ 
denly your companion grips your arm. 
You hear the whistling of wings, and if 
your sight is good, you see the bird flying 
low over the open field, rising gradually 
Into the wind, until he shows clear 
against the western sky. Back and forth 
he flies, rising steadily higher till he 
looks for all the world like a huge insect. 
All the time the whistling and twittering 
sound continues. Presently you are 
aware of a new sound, a succession of 
sweet, liquid notes dropping from the 
sky, and an Instant later the bird comes 
zig-zagging down and alights in the open 
space, perhaps only a short distance 
away. He has been in the air nearly a 
minute. Silence for a moment, then a 
“peent" so loud and vibrant that it 
startles you. There is still light enough 
to see the outline of the bird, standing in 
the grass, and with the glass you can 
make out his long bill. When he rises 
the next time, you run for a bush near 
the place where he last descended, and 
as he plunges down, there is a moment of 
suspense. Will he alight beside you, or 
sheer off to the other side of the field? 
If he comes down near enough, you will 
hear what is called the “ptul" note, a 
curious inward sound which has been 
likened to the music of water dripping 
Into a well. One, two and rarely three of 
these “ptuls” precede each “peent.” 
If the light still holds, you put your ^lass 
on the bird and try to make out exactly 
what he does When he is on the ground. 
There is usually just light enough to tan¬ 
talize one; he certainly jerked his head, 
as he uttered the peent, but did he or did 
he not open his wings or spread his tail? 
My own particular woodcock has an ex¬ 
cellent taste in landscape. He spends bis 
day in a little swale at the foot of a hill¬ 
side pasture which faces the west, so that 
while we wait for his first ascent, we can 
watch the evening star burning, brighter 
in the fading sunset. One spring, as I 
sat watching the reddening clouds, they 
parted, and a veritable new planet, Mer¬ 
cury, swam into my ken. Venus, too, and 
Saturn were a little higher in the same 
I quarter of the sky, so that once when 
! the woodcock rose, his dark body crossed 
l the shining orb of Venus—a transit of the 
woodcock. Another evening, as I was look¬ 
ing through field-glasses at the still glowing 
west, four large birds crossed the field of 
observation, flapping slowly and in single 
file toward the north—night herons I sup¬ 
pose, migrating toward the marshes of 
Newburyport or the coast of Maine. 
Before the present wave of bird study 
it was a mark of some distinction to see the 
partridge drum in the woods, or hear the 
woodcock’s evening hymn. 
"Most can raise the flowers now. 
For all have got the seed.” 
There are personally conducted expeditions 
to hear well-known and long-suffering 
woodcocks. I have known one poor bird 
to perform to an audience of over a dozen 
people. Once a day, however, the wood¬ 
cock has the pasture and the swale to 
himself; for he repeats his performance 
before dawn, when only the morning star 
looks down on his flight;— 
“Soon as the gray-eyed morning streaks 
the skies, 
And in the doubtful day the woodcock 
flies.” 
This repetition of his song-flight at day¬ 
break offers an enthusiastic observer the 
best opportunity to see just what the wood- 1 
cock does. One must rise before four and 
perhaps shiver in the chill dawn of March, 
but each time that the bird goes up, the 
sunrise is a little nearer, the shadows les¬ 
sen instead of deepen, and at last the per¬ 
formance is given almost in broad daylight. 
Our latitude will rarely offer a better 
day for such an early morning expedition 
i 
