200 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April, 1918 
) 
He looked as though about to leave 
beating their rhythmical tattoo. I could 
hardly believe my senses; and as the per¬ 
formance ceased and the bird settled down 
on his log, his feathers puffed up until he 
resembled a chrysanthemum and his head 
drawn down into the ball, I rubbed my 
eyes and wondered if I had been dreaming. 
But I had not long to wonder. In a few 
But this move was part of the program 
minutes the fluffy ball again came to life 
and again the resonant “Boom” sounded 
through the woods, sending its message 
to all woodsfolk within earshot. 
This was the opportunity of a lifetime 
and we seized our cameras and began to 
stalk him. It soon became clear that we 
had trespassed on his own private pre¬ 
serve, and he was determined to 
give place to nobody. He seemed 
to grow accustomed to our pres¬ 
ence, and we found that by crawl¬ 
ing carefully over the snowy 
ground, creeping up a few feet 
while he was drumming and then 
lying motionless while he was 
quiet, we could get within six feet 
of the old fellow. Then the cam¬ 
era came into action, so I will let 
the pictures tell their own story. 
The day was raw and chilly 
and our friend apparently 
was not feeling very brisk 
and vigorous. He spent 
most of his time in the 
chrysanthemum state, with 
just his beak and a few 
crest feathers protruding 
from the fluffy ball. After 
a while a beadlike eye 
would appear and sleepily regard 
the camera. Then suddenly the 
bird turned his head and looked 
alarmed, while my heart sank 
within me, fearing that he would 
take flight. He stretched his 
neck and began to bristle his 
feathers; then I felt certain he 
was about to walk off and 
leave me to my chagrin. 
But no, this was all a part 
of the ceremony, as I 
learned later—a sort of 
opening number preparatory 
to the real performance. In 
a moment the show began, 
old bird stretched himself 
his full height, head erect, crest 
upstanding, ruff spread, his tail 
pressed flat against the log and 
his breast feathers fluffed until 
they almost covered his feet, his 
wings partly unfolded and 
drooped until they trailed 
the log. A slight elevation 
of the wings and then they 
were thrown sharply back¬ 
ward, striking together be¬ 
hind the bird’s back with 
deep, soft “Boom,” return¬ 
their forward position that I think it leaves 
not a shadow of a doubt that they do no! 
strike the bird’s breast. 
The whirring ceased, the performance 
was over and the bird subsided placidly 
into his ball of feathers and roosted, in¬ 
different to all the world about him, until 
the impulse seized him for a new demon¬ 
stration. 
This program was repeated again and 
again and again for perhaps two hours, 
giving me opportunity to study and photo¬ 
graph every phase of the proceeding. Then 
The wings were more widely extended 
The 
to 
my friend apparently decided that it was 
lunch time and, after making a careful 
toilet, the proud drummer became trans¬ 
formed into an inconspicuous and elusive 
Quaker-colored bird, and walked carefully 
down the log, pecking at the buds on the 
shrubbery as he went. The photographer 
He poised his wings in starting position 
ing almost instantly to the start¬ 
ing position, but with the feathers 
somewhat spread. In a couple of 
seconds another preliminary beat 
left the wings still more extended 
and the primaries further sepa¬ 
rated. The next beat came more 
quickly and then beat fol¬ 
lowed beat, faster and still 
faster, as the bird stretched 
himself almost on tiptoe in 
his ecstasy and the wings 
became an indistinguishable 
blur, while the deep tattoo 
resounded far and wide 
throughout the forest. 
It was at this point that the de¬ 
spair of the photographer seized 
me, for the day was dark and the 
sky leaden, so that even my rapid 
lens could not stop the motion 
of those whirring wings. But I 
did succeed in getting one shot 
which, though it shows the wings 
only as a blur, I think will prove 
to the most skeptical that they did 
actually strike together behind the 
drummer’s back. A front view 
shows the wings so clearly in 
And the next beat came more quickly 
reeled off the precious film, packed it care¬ 
fully in his duffle bag and wondered if his 
life-long ambition had really been fulfilled 
—for every camera hunter knows that 
there’s many a slip between the posing and 
the picture. 
Few subjects have been more discussed 
by American naturalists and sportsmen 
than this same drumming, a sound so fa¬ 
miliar to outdoor men as hardly to need 
description. It is commonly thought to be 
a mating call, though by no means sounded 
only at the pairing season in spring; for 
the roll of the drumming, sounding like 
