crouches close upon his hillock. It is said that in places where black game are few a single cock will go through all this by himself, or at least with only his wives for witnesses. But if there are more cocks than one, the proceedings generally end with a fight. Where the birds are numerous the young cocks, who are not allowed to enter the arena with their elders, hold unauthorized celebrations of their own.

There are many birds which thus, like higher mortals, have their fits of madness in the days of courtship. But there are some, such as the spur-winged Lapwing of La Plata, which are, like the lady in the song, so fond of dancing, especially of what the natives call their serious dance, meaning a square one, that they indulge in such performances all the year, not in the daytime only, but even on moonlight nights. “If,” says Mr. Hudson, who tells the story, “a person watches any two birds for some time—for they live in pairs—he will see another Lapwing, one of a neighboring couple, rise up and fly to them, leaving his own mate to guard their chosen ground, and instead of resenting this visit as an unwarranted intrusion on their domain, as they would certainly resent the approach of almost any other bird, they welcome it with notes and signs of pleasure. Advancing to the visitor, they place themselves behind it; then all three keeping step, begin a rapid march, uttering resonant drumming notes in time with their movements; the notes of the pair behind them being emitted in a stream, like a drum roll, while the leader utters loud single notes at regular intervals. The march ceases; the leader elevates his wings and stands motionless and erect, still uttering loud notes, while the other two with puffed-out plumage, and standing exactly abreast, stoop forward and downward until the top of their beaks touch the ground, and, sinking their rhythmical voices to a murmur, remain for some time in this posture. The performance is then over and the visitor goes back to his own ground and mate, to receive a visitor himself later on.”—London Daily News.

purple finch.
From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences. Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1898, Chicago.

THE PURPLE FINCH.

“The wind blows cold, the birds are still,
And skies are gray.”

URPLE GROSBEAK, Crimson Finch, Strawberry Bird, and Linnet are some of the common names by which this bird of bright colors, sweet song, and sociable disposition is known. It is very numerous in New England, but is found nesting regularly in the northern tier of states, North and South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, etc., northward, and it is said to breed in northern Illinois. In Nova Scotia it is exceeding abundant.

Robert Ridgway says he first made the acquaintance of the Purple Finch at Mt. Carmel, in mid-winter, “under circumstances of delightful memory. The ground was covered with snow,—the weather clear and bright, but cold. Crossing a field in the outskirts of the town, and approaching the line of tall, dead rag-weeds which grew thickly in the fence corners, a straggling flock of birds was startled, flew a short distance, and again alighted on the tall weed-stalks, uttering as they flew, a musical, metallic chink, chink. The beautiful crimson color of the adult males, heightened by contrast with the snow, was a great surprise to the writer, then a boy of thirteen, and excited intense interest in this, to him, new bird. On subsequent occasions during the same winter, they were found under like circumstances, and also in ‘sycamore’ or buttonwood trees, feeding on the small seeds contained within the balls of this tree.”

Dr. Brewer says that the song of the Purple Finch resembles that of the Canary, and though less varied and powerful, is softer, sweeter, and more touching and pleasing. The notes may be heard from the last of May until late in September, and in the long summer evening are often continued until it is quite dark. Their song has all the beauty and pathos of the Warbling Vireo, and greatly resembles it, but is more powerful and full in tone. It is a very interesting sight to watch one of these little performers in the midst of his song. He appears perfectly absorbed in his work,—his form is dilated, his crest is erected, his throat expands, and he seems to be utterly unconscious of all around him. But let an intruder of his own race appear within a few feet of the singer, the song instantly ceases, and in a violent fit of indignation, he chases him away. S. P. Cheney says that a careful observer told him that he had seen the Linnet fly from the side of his mate directly upward fifteen or twenty feet, singing every instant in the most excited manner till he dropped to the point of starting. The Yellow-breasted Chat has a like performance. See Vol. II of Birds, p. 238.

The nest of the Finch is usually placed in evergreens or orchard trees, at a moderate distance from the ground. It is composed of weed-stalks, bark strips, rootlets, grasses, and vegetable fibres, and lined with hair. The eggs are four or five in number, dull green, and spotted with dark brown.

Study his picture and habits and be prepared to welcome this charming spring visitant.

THE RED-BELLIED WOODPECKER.

A little Woodpecker am I,
And you may always know
When I am searching for a worm,
For tap, tap, tap, I go.

Oh yes, I am proud of my appearance, but really I am not proud of my name. Sometimes I am called the “Zebra Bird,” on account of the bands of white and black on my back and wings. That is a much prettier name, I think, than the Red-bellied Woodpecker, don’t you? Certainly it is more genteel.

I know a bird that is called the Red-eyed Vireo, because his eyes are red. Well, my eyes are red, too. Then why not call me the Red-eyed Woodpecker? Still the Woodpeckers are such a common family I don’t much care about that either.

In the last February number of Birds that saucy red-headed cousin of mine had his picture and a letter. Before very long the Red-cockaded Woodpecker will have his picture taken too, I suppose.

Dear, dear! If all the Woodpeckers are going to write to you, you will have a merry time. Why, I can count twenty-four different species of that family and I have only four fingers, or toes, to count on, and you little folks have five. There may be more of them, Woodpeckers I mean, for all I know.

Speaking about toes! I have two in front and two behind. There are some Woodpeckers that have only three, two in front and one behind. It’s a fact, I assure you. I thought I would tell you about it before one of the three toed fellows got a chance to write to you about it himself.

I am not so shy and wary a bird as some people think I am. When I want an insect, or worm, I don’t care how many eyes are watching me, but up the tree I climb in my zigzag fashion, crying chaw-chaw,