When the pallid sun has vanished
Under Osceola’s ledges,
When the lengthening shadows mingle
In a sombre sea of twilight,
From the hemlocks in the hollow
Swift emerging comes the Partridge;
Not a sound betrays her starting,
Not a sound betrays her lighting
In the birches by the wayside,
In her favoured place for budding.
When the twilight turns to darkness,
When the fox’s bark is sounding,
From her buds the Partridge hastens,
Seeks the soft snow by the hazels,
Burrows in its sheltering masses,
Burrows where no Owl can find her.
—Frank Bolles.
“You all know the path that runs by the grist-mill and up through the
river woods. In spring, I could almost count upon seeing a Grouse or two
when I took that walk, and very early, of September and October
mornings, I have seen the Woodcock probing, with their long, sensitive,
pointed bills, with which they can feel like fingers, in the muddy
ground back of the river woods for the worms, and such like, upon which
they feed. It was my father, himself, who took me one evening, even
though it was bedtime, to these same woods to hear the Woodcock’s
courting dance and song.”
“I didn’t know any game-birds could sing,” said Tommy.
“They are not classed with song-birds, and yet in courting time, most
birds have some sort of musical speech in addition to their call-notes;
you know that even Crows sometimes succeed in singing. But this
love-song varies with the individual bird more than it does with the
birds that are real vocalists.
“The Woodcock feed chiefly at dawn and twilight, and it is easy to tell
where they have been by the little holes in the mud left by the bill.
This spring night father took me to the wood edge, and drew me to him,
to keep me still while we waited—for what? I was soon to know.
“Presently a half-musical cry came out of the gathering darkness, and
was repeated and echoed by several others. Then a rush, as if a bird had
flung himself into the air and opened his wings at the same time; next,
a whirring sound as the bird circled skyward and vanished, his notes
falling behind him, but before I realized what was going on, the bird
dropped straight as a Hawk, balanced on his toes, gave a low, musical
cry, and began again; for thus it is that the Woodcock tries to please
and win his mate.