Wake-Robin | Page 8

a "perfect figure" of a bird. The
seasonableness of her coming, however, and her civil, neighborly ways,
shall make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage. After a few
weeks phoebe is seldom seen, except as she darts from her
moss-covered nest beneath some bridge or shelving cliff.
Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin-redbreast, with
whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the
gold-winged woodpecker, alias "high-hole," alias "flicker," alias
"yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to me means
very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated from
the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,--a thoroughly
melodious April sound. I think how Solomon finished that beautiful
description of spring, "And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land,"
and see that a description of spring in this farming country, to be
equally characteristic, should culminate in like manner,--"And the call
of the high-hole comes up from the wood."
It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not seem to imply an
answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music. It is
"Yarup's" proclamation of peace and good-will to all. On looking at the
matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominated songsters,

have, in the spring, some note or sound or call that hints of a song, and
answers imperfectly the end of beauty and art. As a "livelier iris
changes on the burnished dove," and the fancy of the young man turns
lightly to thoughts of his pretty cousin, so the same renewing spirit
touches the "silent singers," and they are no longer dumb; faintly they
lisp the first syllables of the marvelous tale. Witness the clear sweet
whistle of the gray-crested titmouse,--the soft, nasal piping of the
nuthatch,--the amorous, vivacious warble of the bluebird,--the long,
rich note of the meadowlark,--the whistle of the quail,--the drumming
of the partridge,--the animation and loquacity of the swallows, and the
like. Even the hen has a homely, contented carol; and I credit the owls
with a desire to fill the night with music. Al birds are incipient or
would be songsters in the spring. I find corroborative evidence of this
even in the crowing of the cock. The flowering of the maple is not so
obvious as that of the magnolia; nevertheless, there is actual
inflorescence.
Few writers award any song to that familiar little sparrow, the Socialis;
yet who that has observed him sitting by the wayside, and repeating,
with devout attitude, that fine sliding chant, does not recognize the
neglect? Who has heard the snowbird sing? Yet he has a lisping warble
very savory to the ear. I have heard him indulge in it even in February.
Even the cow bunting feels the musical tendency, and aspires to its
expression, with the rest. Perched upon the topmost branch beside his
mate or mates,--for he is quite a polygamist, and usually has two or
three demure little ladies in faded black beside him,--generally in the
early part of the day, he seems literally to vomit up his notes.
Apparently 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 bottle, 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 tension 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 motives, and credit him with a genuine musical
performance.
It is to be expected, therefore, that "yellow-hammer" will respond to the
general tendency, and contribute his part to the spring chorus. His April
call is his finest touch, his most musical expression.
I recall an ancient maple standing sentry to a large sugar-bush, that,
year after year, afforded protection to a brood of yellow-hammers in its
decayed heart. A week or two before nesting seemed actually to have
begun, three or four of these birds might be seen, on almost any bright
morning, gamboling and courting amid its decayed branches.
Sometimes you would hear only a gentle persuasive cooing, or a quiet
confidential chattering,--then that long, loud call, taken up