faint,
timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard in various
directions,--the young responding. As no danger seems near, the cooing
of the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and the young
move cautiously in the direction. Let me step never so carefully from my
hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and I search in vain for
either parent or young.

The Partridge (_Bonasa umbellus_) is one of our most native and
characteristic birds. The woods seem good to be in where I find him. He
gives a habitable air to the forest, and one feels as if the rightful
occupant was really at home. The woods where I do not find him seem to
want something, as if suffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he
is such a splendid success, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the
cold and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fervency in
midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and promises a heavy storm, he
will complacently sit down and allow himself to be snowed under.
Approaching him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow at
your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and goes humming
away through the woods like a bomb-shell,--a picture of native spirit
and success.

His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.
Scarcely have the trees showed their buds, when, in the still April
mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. He
selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but a decayed
and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to old oak-logs that
are partially 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. Have you 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, striking faster and faster till the sound becomes a continuous,
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 it on foot, and leav