WON 3 1924 090 296 819 CORNELL LAB of ORNITHOLOGY LIBRARY AT SAPSUCKER WOODS Illustration of Snowy Owl by Louts Agassiz Fuertes DATE DUE GAYLORD PRINTED IN U.S.A. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924090296819 IDUG JACI sta ADUCE CROW SHT Feathered Game of the Northeast By WALTER H. RICH WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. PUBLISHERS Orn isbio De, Bia F492 Copyright, 1907, By THomas Y. CRowELL & Co. Published September, 1907. TO MY WIFE, MOST PATIENT OF READERS AND GENTLEST OF CRITICS THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. The writer is aware that there are many ex- cellent bird books, but while most of these are of wider scope, either covering the broad field of general ornithology or dealing with the en- tire bird life of a large area of country, there are few which treat solely of the groups of spe- cial interest to sportsmen,—especially to the sportsmen of New England. This work is de- voted to the so-called ‘‘game birds,’’ and while the author’s intent has been to write of them to the man whose nature study has been con- ducted in the open and mostly over a gunbarrel, it is his hope that all lovers of the birds and the out-of-doors, and even the scientific ornitholo- gist as well, may find his page of interest and profit. Treating the subject from the standpoint of fair sportsmanship, the writer has endeavored to discountenance the reckless and needless slaughter. by those whose ambition it is to make a record killing, and he asks of the thoughtful v vi PREFACE sportsman, who beats the covert in search of health and sport, and of the working naturalist, that they meet on this common ground and work loyally together in an effort to save our wild life from the extermination which threatens. The protection of our wild creatures, particularly of our game birds, seems to be the most im- portant question in the sportsman’s outlook upon the future—a question calling for much foresight and no little self-denial in its proper solution. The present generation is feeling the results of that selfishness of the past, so well summed up in its two stock arguments: ‘‘O, well, if I don’t kill them someone else will, and the game will last my time, anyhow!’’ Will it, you who listen to our old men’s tales of shooting days in the not-so-long-ago? Will it, you who have gunned the marsh? Where are the plover flocks which once swept across its wide expanse? Will it, market hunter and slayer of the wild pigeon? Will it, chicken hun- ter, you who left your dead to rot in August’s sun? Will it, hide hunter of the buffalo days? If the reader can look with indifference upon the works of these, let him permit things to take their ruinous course,—let him do nothing to re- PREFACE vii ‘strict any man in killing when, where, or how he will. But if he wishes to save our weaker brethren of the wilderness, that they may fur- nish to those who come after us the joys they afford to-day, he will lend his best effort, when someone with the interests of our game supply at heart tries to put off the opening day of a shooting season until the birds have become full- fledged, or he will strengthen the hands of those who endeavor to stop spring shooting, or to close our markets to the sale of game. These things I say to the great brotherhood of sports- men. To the individual gunner this admonition may not come amiss: do not, even though with- in your legal right, continue to kill after a fair bag has been made. It would be a wise plan for each and all of us who carry a gun to paste in our shooting hats cards bearing the motto: ‘Don’t forget to leave enough for seed.”’ And now, reader, this book is committed to you in the hope that you may find herein some- thing to remind you pleasantly of your own exploits on wooded hillside, or ’mid rustling reeds, or on sunlit seas, and with the wish that Vill PREFACE you may forgive its many short-comings, ‘‘Of which,’’ as honest Izaak says, ‘‘if thou be a severe, sour-complexioned man, then I here dis- allow thee to be a competent judge.’’ Water H. Rica. Falmouth, Maine, June first, 1907. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Spruce Grouse . . . . . .... . d Heath Hen . ......... . 9 Rurrep Grouse . . . . . . . .. . 16 Witow Grouse. . ....... . Ol Bop WHITE ........ . « « ST BrETLEHEAD PLOVER. . . . . . .. . 10 GoupEN PLovER . . .. ..... . 8 KinpEER PLOVER . . . . .. . . . . 88 SEMIPALMATED PLOVER . . . . . . . . 85 Pirina PLovER . .. ..... . . 88 BeLtep PrpIne PLOVER . . . . . . . . 89 Witson’s PLov—kR ........ . 90 AMERICAN OYSTER CATCHER . . . . . . 91 TURNSTONE . . . . . . 2. 2. «© 2 « 94 AVOCET foo Row a © a & Sos w& « 97 STMT’ -.5 Gs a Oe OR ae ew OD. Rep PHALAROPE . . . . . ... . +. 101 NorTHERN PHALAROPE . . . . . . . . 102 Witson’s PHauaROPE . . . . . . . . 105 AMERICAN Woopcock ... . . . . . 108 Wiuson’s SNIPE. . . . . . . . . ~~. 180 DowilTcHER ......... . . 145 x TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Stiur SANDPIPER. . . . . . . . . ~. 149 Batrp’s SANDPIPER . . . . . . . . . 1561 Toe “*PEBPS’’ «6 @ “@ « eo » «@ @ «# w» 1538 GRASSBIRD «© © 2 «© # «© # w © «» « « 159 Purple SANDPIPFR . . . . . . . . . 163 RED-BACKED SANDPIPER . . . . . . © . 166 SANDERLING . . . . . . . . « © . 168 Ropin SNIPE. . . . . . . . « ~~. 170 Great MarpuED Gopwir . .. . . . . 172 Hupsonian Gopwit . . . . . . . . +. 174 WILEET «os 8 ee ehlUehlUmehUumDDhUmhU®CUe TE Winter YELLOW-LEGS . . . . .. . . 177 Summer YELLOW-LEGS . . . . . . . . 186 SouitarRy SANDPIPER. . . . . . . . . 188 Sporrep SANDPIPER . . . . . . . . . 198 RUFF & 2 & & & = & @ # & & « 199 UPLAND PLOVER . . . . . . . . . . 201 BuFF-BREASTED SANDPIPER . . . . . . . 214 SICKLE-BILLED CURLEW . . . . . . . . 215 Hupsonian CuRLEW. . . . . . . . . 218 Esquimaux CURLEW. . . . . .. . . 220 Kine Ral. . ww wee eee BB CuapprR Ram . . . eee OT Vireinta Ra. ww wee C289 SORA Rains. a @ aioe “ G. wow 2 @ & BBL Yettow Ram. . . . . we 287 Buack Ram . . . . ee 8889 TABLE OF CONTENTS European Corn CRAKE . PurpLe GALLINULE Fiormwa GALLINULE . Coot ge x GrEatTEeR SNow GoosE WHITE-FRONTED GOOSE CANADA GOOSE Hurcuins’ Goose Common Brant Mauuarp Duck Buack Duck . GADWALL WIDGEON GREEN-WINGED TEAL . BuvuE-wInNGeD TEAL SHOVELER . PINTAIL. Woop Duck RED-HEAD CANVASBACK GREATER BLUEBILL Lesser BLUEBILL . RING-NECKED DucK . WHISTLER . Rocky Mountain GARRorT BUFFLEHEAD OLDSQquaw xil TABLE OF CONTENTS HarLEQuiN Laprapor Duck . AMERICAN EIDER . Kine EpEr AMERICAN SCOTER WHITE-WINGED Coot . PaTcH-HEAD Coot AMERICAN MERGANSER RED-BREASTED MERGANSER Hoopep MERGANSER . Ruppy Duck . INDEX . -ghuim peaads Ssoue di OL dy wou} Paunseaw st JUalX, ‘jo, au4. fo pus ayl. OL 1119 aut dodiy wou} painseew st iver, : : sy pue yoou Jo opis ayy duoje Yynow Jo 4 “WANOTG GVGHIILAIT “aut SIL MOjad, sed Guiuieuas ‘mojag, - yo} ou) fo 1004 of hpog autoa wort Umeap dul] B BAL SI YIIYM “18 pur sbuim jo aaejing Jaddn durpnjaut ‘uo}jsog Jey | “$ab) sad) 10 “anoqy oj ain b BO) IIPPILt--- XN|[O}{ 40'90) pully} - 90, JeUUE S\\, ‘wnsstug 40 ‘yonp v Jo wanjnaed¢ snopes Ra ay) fe). sepun ‘ vigil -~ -YOtus.. Pel shadho9 12) saddn uowopay a S}AaA07) Hulm 4212209 == SJlano) SuIM a] Ppl“ MiGZE as Gum suadd}] fo mata Japun Guanor Suinsacsa] sea / Meneeee = W' cowun| phae|| ny s0'Suy nie 2 FF - che ' JPOsU.L. gjeival salaeundy —— a ‘ojqipue AOMOT]A m8 a alqupuoyy saddn- Re pindessvaju] 149409 ZS -- saravpuorag *~ aq eh] Sum Japury\ jason An S[HOAO}) 40g ' peayasoy” UMO19 uawing “SaLUBWIAd agownsa Jo Juewagueny Gumoys SONIMYU ANITLAQ day LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS . Woop Duck... . . Colored Frontispiece OuTLINE Drawine SHOWING AR- RANGEMENT OF PLUMAGE . . Opposite page Spruce GROUSE .... . ay mS 5 Heath H—eN ..... . se 18 RurreD GROUSE . ... . Bf se 25 ‘“‘TREMBLING WITH SUPPRESSED JOY AND EAGERNESS, HE TURNS,’’ BIG) “s % “aoe ce a. we - 35 Rurrep Grouse SHOOTING . . ee fe 45 Wittow GrRousE . ... . ee fe 5S Bos WHITE a cA? cat, fon aks ck - “63 BEETLEHEAD PLOVER . . . . a ee 13 GOLDEN PLOVER . . .. . pe «81 Kiaupeer PLOVER . ... . . ‘e834 SEMPALMATED PLOVER — PIPIna PLOVER . . ..... a “87 Witson’s PLovER . . .. . “91 Oyster CATCHER . . .. . *s e983 TURNSTONE. . . . . . . oa ee 995 ANOGET os Syl be, 46) 3) A LON af “ec -98 STH 4 woe. a ea Ss Ss «< 100 NoRTHERN PHALAROPE— WILSON’S PHALAROPE—RED PHALAROPE . “ ** 105 AMERICAN Woopcock. . . . sf se 118 xiii xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS “He Sees His Dog, onze Foor RatsEeD, ETC. . . . . . . Opposite page 121 SNIPE Ws 4a 4 nS “6 135 A Goop Snipze CounTRY. . . sf «e141 BrowNBACK . .... . oe ‘6 147 Stitt SanpPIPER AND Bamrp’s SANDPIPER . . . . . . ee “e151 SEMIPALMATED, LEAST AND WHITE- RUMPED SANDPIPERS. . . . cf «e155 GRASSBIRD . . . ... . he “e161 PurPLeE SANDPIPER AND ReEp- BACKED SANDPIPER. . . . ee “* 165 SANDERLING ad Aad, fe, oie oe as “« 169 Ropin SNIPE . . ... . et “171 Marstep Gopwir . ... . ts 173 Hupsonian GopWIT . .. . abe «e175 WIGGED’ sO eo Ge es ‘6177 WINTER YELLOW-LEGS . . . ee «e183 Summer YELLOW-LEGS . . . “e ‘¢ 187 Sonitary SANDPIPER . . . . se «e191 Sporrep SANDPIPER... . se ee 195 RurF .. . a ee ee “¢ -199 UPLAND PLOVER . . .. . “f «6 207 BUFF-BREASTED SANDPIPER . . ce ee 214 SICKLE-BILLED CURLEW . . . id «217 Hupsonian CurLEw—EsQuimaux CuRLEW . . .... . oe ee 220 King Ral. . . ww sf fe 224 A WINTER MoRNING WITH THE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS XV CLAPPER Ram. . . . . . Opposite page 227 VIRGINIA Ran an «¢ 229 Sora Rau e 4 Blow ” «233 YELLOW Ram anp Buack Rar . RS 6 237 Corn CRAKE HS “< -239 PURPLE GALLINULE.. . ee «e241 Fiorina GALLINULE ee «¢ 248 Mup Hen. Coot eee ‘ “¢ Q47 Snow Goose 5s «e249 WHITE-FRONTED GOOSE £8 «e251 CaNnapDA GOOSE . 4 “« 261 Brant ce “« 270 Matuarp Duck “¢ ‘<< 274 Biack Duck es «279 GADWALL a se 291 WIpGEON ee «6 295 GREEN-WINGED TEAL ee “¢ 301 BLUE-WINGED TEAL - se 305 SHOVELER a «« 309 PINTaIL . ie ‘e315 . REDHEAD ee fe 82T CANVASBACK “ “331 GreEaTER BLUEBILL ae ‘e334 Lesser BLUEBILL . . . ss ‘337 RInG-NECKED Duck es “« -340 WHISTLER . . . .... " ‘3438 WHISTLERS . . . . . . Opposite page 347 xvi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Barrow’s GOLDEN-EYE . . . eS ee 351 BuUFFLEHEAD ok OR Bel a ae ee 354 OLDSQUAW — SPRING PLUMAGE . ‘ «e357 OLDSQUAW — WINTER PLUMAGE . ee “e361 Hartequin Duck. ... . si se 365 Laprapor Duck .... . ef ‘« 368 AMERICAN EIDER . . .. . se “375 Sea Duck SHOOTING OVER DECOYS ss ‘* 381 Kine Err... rs ‘387 BuTTER-BILLED Coor . . . . me ‘e393 WHITE-WINGED Coor . . .. . or «400 PaTcH-HEAD Coor. . . . . s “« 403 AMERICAN MERGANSER . . . se “6 407 RED-BREASTED MERGANSER . . “ “e411 Hoopep MrerRGANSER . .. . ee “e415 Ruppy Duck ...... es se 421 FEATHERED GAME OF THE NORTHEAST THE SPRUCE GROUSE. (Canachites canadensis.) The Spruce Grouse, Canada Grouse, Swamp Partridge, or Black Grouse,—for by all these titles this bird is known,—is a dweller on our North American continent from Newfoundland to the Columbia river, thence northward into Alaska, and from the northern portions of the United States to the limits of the spruce forests of the sub-Arctic lands, thus leaving only north- western Montana, Oregon, Washington, and northward along the coast through British Co- lumbia for its cousin, Franklin’s Grouse. Little they care for cold or snow. They seem to be resident at all points of their habitat. The range of the Spruce Grouse extends much far- ther into the north than that of the ruffed grouse. It is somewhat smaller than this aristo- cratic relative, and in its shape is nearer to the 1 2 FEATHERED GAME quails and the ptarmigans than to the other grouse. Their homes are in the boggy portions of the woods—swampy ground carpeted in summer with moss and trailing vines, deep-shaded with spruce and hemlock—where quaking bogs and mire over which they pass with light and nimble steps make the footing of the pursuer treacher- ous in the extreme—almost impassable haunts at any other than the winter season. In the summer months they feed upon the insects, wild fruits and berries of the woods and at this season their flesh can scarcely be distinguished from that of the ruffed grouse in flavor. In- deed, upon examination of the barrels of ‘‘birch partridges’’ which were annually destroyed in the Maine woods by illegal snaring, (now hap- pily almost a thing of the past because our mar- kets are closed to the sale of game), many Spruce Grouse were to be found, having been passed off upon the dealer as ruffed grouse, and as this better bird were they sold to inexperi- enced buyers. But with the coming of the snow the days of plenty have passed and there is lit- tle left for them but the leaves and buds of the various evergreens which make the forests of SPRUCE GROUSE 3 the northern swamps. At this time their flesh becomes very dark and to most palates is un- pleasantly bitter. It is but justice to say, how- ever, that under like conditions the flesh of the ruffed grouse is little better. There are those who claim to prefer this flavor—this strong re- minder of the spruce tops. If, then, your friends should speak ill of the table qualities of either of these fowls, be sure that they have been experimenting with some winter bird whose unchanging and long-continued fare of spruce buds has not been the ‘‘sweet savour’’ ‘best suiting your epicure’s taste. Let us con- fine ourselves, then, to the legitimate hunting season and we shall have no such bitter gastro- nomical disappointments. I have seen men eat Spruce Grouse twice a day for a week in Octo- ber with relish unabated at the end of the time, nor did they think themselves much abused thereby. As is the habit of the family their nests are built upon the ground; a tiny hollow lined with dry leaves and moss, protected from the weather and shielded from view by the over- hanging boughs of spruce or fir tree. They lay from ten to eighteen eggs,—commonly nearer 4 FEATHERED GAME the lesser number,—rather pointed at the smaller end, of a dull, creamy-buff color, and splashed and freckled with brown or chestnut spots. As a rule the nesting season in Maine is about the first of April, but grows later as we go farther north. As has been before stated, the appearance of this bird is like the quail rather than the grouse, and in its gait and movements it is most graceful and attractive. The prevailing color is a dusky bluish gray, with minute barrings and mottlings of black. The breast is black with lines of white feathers across it low down, and other white feathers in greater numbers ap- pearing on the flanks and under the tail. On the throat a black patch bordered by a white band extending downward from each eye and meeting under the throat. Amn area of naked skin, bright vermilion, above each eye. Tail black, each feather terminated by a spot of deep orange yellow. Feet feathered to the toes. Length sixteen to seventeen inches; thus the male. . The female is more like the ruffed grouse in appearance, the general tone of coloring being a rufous brown with crossbars and mottlings of SPRUCE GROUSE. SPRUCE GROUSE 5 dusky brown and black, though there are some traces of the male bird’s color plan also, such as the white feathering on the flanks and below, but there should be no difficulty in distinguish- ing one from the other at a glance, since, aside from its smaller size, the Spruce Partridge lacks the ‘‘Elizabethan ruff’’ on the neck, has no crest and is feathered to the toes. In southern New England this bird is prob- ably now never taken, though in the old days it was seen occasionally. In Maine the Spruce Grouse is very rare in the southern parts, be- ing occasionally found in the neighborhood of Umbagog lake in Oxford county, growing more common as we approach the northern lumber regions and on the wooded slopes of the moun- tains, but still nowhere in the State equally numerous with the ruffed grouse. They be- come more abundant as we go farther north. This bird is vastly inferior to the ruffed grouse in the qualities for which the latter is so highly prized by sportsmen, being neither so crafty, strong and fleet of wing, nor, in a word, so ‘‘game.”’ The northern lumbermen speak slightingly of its intellect, giving it the complimentary title 6 FEATHERED GAME of ‘‘fool hen,’’ because, being unacquainted with the kindly ways of man-in dealing with his weaker brethren, when an intruder comes into its seldom-troubled domains it will only fly up into the nearest tree to sit craning its neck and staring while the clumsiest bungler that ever pulled trigger may shoot it as it perches, —even staying upon its roost to scold and strut with its tail cocked over its back if the marks- man’s first trial should be unsuccessful. Thus does it meet the usual fate of trustful inno- cence. It is well known that in distant regions where little hunted the ruffed grouse will some- times do the same, though I think one would meet with small success in an attempt to take the ‘‘birch partridge’’ with a slipnoose on the end of a stick, as may often be done with these birds. When the Spruce Partridge has become better acquainted with the gunners, and later generations of hunted grouse have dodged shot among the tree tops until a wholesome fear of man has been implanted in their breasts, they will not fail to meet the demands of the most exacting sportsman or they are no true grouse. A friend tells me of a scene he came upon in Flagstaff, ‘‘in the Dead River country,’’ where a SPRUCE GROUSE 7 little schoolhouse had been crowded up against the wall of the woods. A knot of squealing youngsters, wild with excitement, were danc- ing around two of the older boys who, armed with a Fourth of July cannon made of a .45 calibre shell wired upon a block of wood, were trying to down a cock spruce grouse which was scolding and strutting on a bough about ten feet from the ground. Never did a gun crew work more earnestly. Powder, turned into the arm with trembling hands, was wadded with long moss from the nearest tree—the projectile the first pebble that would fit its muzzle. Then one gunner gripped the block tightly and aimed while the other scratched a match and applied it to the touchhole. Bang! Wild screeches and uproar! But Mr. Grouse merely gave his tail another flirt and continued to strut. Now, any boy present could have ‘‘fixed him’? at the first attempt with a rock, but no,—they were sports- men raised in a sportsman’s country and they were going to shoot him or lose him like gentle- men and thus be true to Dead River traditions. So the war went on until a lucky shot tumbled the bird from his perch minus half his head. Because of the distance of their haunts from 8 FEATHERED GAME civilization these, with the ptarmigans, will probably be the last of our grouse to be exter- minated. At present their only disturber is the hunter of big game who may want a showy “‘bird piece’’ for his dining room. It is a very pretty fowl for such a purpose, too, but the sportsman rarely kills more than the pair needed, for at that season their table qualities are not such as to induce him to put in the last day of his stay in camp in shooting the heads off Spruce Grouse to supply a toothsome mor- sel for friends at home, as he generally does with the ruffed grouse. During a snowstorm the Spruce Grouse usu- ally flies up into the densest clump of spruce or fir trees in the neighborhood, and under their thick, arching branches, snow-laden and bend- ing, he finds shelter from the weather and food in abundance. He may not leave the tree for several days if undisturbed and the storm con- tinues. The question of temperature troubles him little, and with his wants all provided for, the Spruce Grouse is more independent in his mode of life than any of his feathered neighbors, for when other birds are scurrying about for something to eat and perhaps going hungry, THE HEATH HEN 9 this gentleman finds plenty of food in his shel- ter, and sits in comfort, ‘‘at ease in his own inn.”’ The Franklin’s Grouse, before mentioned, is very near to this typical bird, the main differ- ence being the lack of the terminal spots of orange in the tail of the male; in his case the tail is either plain black or narrowly tipped with white, and the tips of the upper tail cov- erts in both male and female are white. The lady also has whitish instead of orange tips to the tail feathers. If otherwise different there is rather less of white in the rest of the plumage of this than in the common species. In choice of food, habits and mode of life the two species are in perfect accord. THE HEATH HEN (Tympanuchus cupido.) It is probable that in former times the Prairie Chicken flourished in many places suitable for its occupancy from the Atlantic to its present home, but now the broken and scat- tered remnants of those once thriving communi- ties are to be found only in very small num- 10 FEATHERED GAME bers and in a few widely separated localities. In most of these places their value is recognized and by rigid protection it is hoped to save this interesting eastern race from extinction. Unfortunately, from various causes, their in- crease (if increase there be) is very slow, and it will be long before their numbers will war- rant anything less than complete protection. I greatly fear that this eastern race is doomed. Eastward of the present range of the Prairie Chicken probably the only colony remaining is that of Martha’s Vineyard, though possibly a few may be left on the eastern end of Long Island. In both places they are rigidly pro- tected by law, but there seems to be a complete understanding among the natives dwelling near the breeding grounds which permits any one of them to gather Heath Hens in perfect security, and makes the whole community a nest of spies upon the stranger who may covet a specimen. The market price of the Heath Hen’s skin at the dealer’s shop runs from twenty-five to forty dollars, though of course, no dealer dares quote the same in his published lists. The remunera- tion to the gunner as his portion of the spoil is THE HEATH HEN 11 usually fixed at five dollars, which leaves a fair margin of profit for the merchant. In some of the places where the eastern race once lived birds from the prairies have been re- leased, but little has been said concerning them and the result of the experiment is not gener- ally known. Probably they have not increased to the extent of becoming a pest to the farmers on whose lands they dwell! By no means the equal of the ruffed grouse (to the writer’s thinking the standard of game bird excellence) in game qualities either of brain or wing power, still the Chicken is a fine bird and those sportsmen who are privileged to shoot them are to be envied for many a pleasant outing. We of New England have our compen- sation, however, and should never complain while wise laws and their growing respect among our people combine to keep up our stock of ruffed grouse. For the most part the Prairie Hen of the west is a dweller in the open rolling plains, tak- ing to the timber only on rare occasions for shel- ter from the weather or when much harassed. The habits of the eastern species are in the 12 FEATHERED GAME main those of the western representative, with such variations as may result from its differ- ent surroundings, such as a greater fondness for brushy covers than has its brother of the prairies. For safety’s sake, and no doubt see- ing the advantages which such a country af- fords, it has become almost as much of a woods bird as the ruffed grouse. It is probable that the bird of the eastern section was always more of a forest dweller than a citizen of the open. The courting habits of the Heath Hen are probably the same as those of the western race, the males performing the same booming sere- nade at sunrise, and it is natural to suppose that they dance and fight as enthusiastically in the mating season as is the custom of the typ- ical bird of the plains. The western bird has been more fortunate than our own. With their enormous wheat fields to fatten upon the Chickens might have thriven wonderfully, and had it not been for the market shooter and the slaughterer for count they might have outlasted any game bird of the continent; but ever the army of sportsmen gains new recruits, and each year sees a greater drain upon a diminishing supply. Newer HEATH HEN. THE HEATH HEN 13 grounds must be sought out to make a good showing, and so each year the Chickens are thinned out in their old haunts or driven far- ther west. Unless existing game laws are re- spected and enforced even more strictly than heretofore the day is not far distant when these fowl] will be as rare in the west as to-day in their former eastern homes. A feeder on grains and seeds, berries and various insects, its flesh is tender and of good flavor during its happier sea- son though growing a trifle strong during the winter months. It is considered a prime table delicacy and thousands are killed for the mar- ket each year, which fact leaves a fine chance for game law improvement. At the beginning of the shooting season the Chickens lie very close, often running along just in front of the dogs with heads showing above the short grass, clucking nervously and springing into the air by twos and threes with steady and only moderately speedy flight, so that a quick shot may use several cartridges be- fore all are gone. It often happens that some old male remains to rise unexpectedly when all the covey is thought to have gone, and catch- ing the tyro with empty or open gun, as often 14 FEATHERED GAME as not escapes. At the season’s opening they are easy marks and readily killed, but when later they ‘‘pack’’ for the winter they are strong fliers and wary enough, giving only the longest of shots. The shooting at this season really calls for some degree of skill. Our bird nests in June or even in the first half of July, which seems late for this latitude, making its nest on the ground in a brushy shel- ter, and laying from six to twelve eggs, usually nearer the smaller number. The eggs are of a greenish gray color. In its markings the Heath Hen does not dif- fer materially from the ordinary form of Prairie Chicken though of slightly darker col- oring. The description of one will pass for the other and is as follows: the Pinnated Grouse, as this bird is named in the books, (so called from the neck-tufts, like small wings, the dis- tinguishing mark of the genus) varies in length from sixteen to eighteen inches. Upper parts dull pale yellow or whitish, regularly barred across the body and wings with dark brown and dusky; throat pale yellow with a few scattering speckles of dusky color. Under parts marked much like the upper, but the barrings more THE HEATH HEN 15 regular, though less distinct and on a paler ground. Tail short, rounded, and carried more erectly than is the usual manner with the grouse, dusky in color, the feathers crossed by uncertain barrings of lighter shade. Crissum white. On each side of the neck are the long, narrow tufts of feathers, the type character, (in the western bird numbering ten or more and somewhat rounded at the tips, but in the Heath Hen less than ten in number, shorter and more pointed at the ends) and beneath these are two bare patches of skin which in the mating season are distended with air until they resemble small oranges. There is a slight crest on the head. Feet feathered to the toes with short, hair-like feathers. The female is marked like the male, but is somewhat smaller, of lighter and less de- cided colors. Her neck-tufts also are consider- ably smaller. The eastern bird is, if in any way different, a little smaller, darker colored, and perhaps shorter-legged than is the typical bird of the west. A distinct whitish spot on the tips of the scapulars is also a distinguishing char- acter of the eastern race. The Heath Hens do not gather into packs as winter comes on, (perhaps because, all told, 16 FEATHERED GAME there are not enough of them to make a respect- able pack) but seem to have adopted much the same mode of life as the ruffed grouse—a pro- ceeding which will tend to increase their chances of long life, for so long as their jackets will command a fair price at the collector’s shop someone will try to compass their destruction. THE RUFFED GROUSE. PARTRIDGE. BIRCH PARTRIDGE (Bonasa umbellus.) This noble fellow is a dweller in most of our New England woodlands, thriving and flour- ishing under conditions which would be fatal to almost any other species. He is a hardy bird with a range of great extent, for from Alaska’s snow and ice to the sunny mountain slopes of the Carolinas and Georgia this gallant grouse is found, bearing equally well the breath of the northern winter and the heat of the southern sun. There is scarcely a portion of our coun- try where, under fitting conditions, our hero (in the south a pheasant, in the north a partridge, and in point of fact neither the one nor the other) is not found, and where found, resident. THE RUFFED GROUSE 17 The species is not strictly migratory, though in the northern parts of its range it moves southward at times with the severest weather, and may change its haunts at any time from natural causes, so that a locality may be very sparsely populated with grouse at one season only to swarm with them the next. In the different portions of their range these birds vary in their coloring, the bird of Oregon and neighboring States being in the most highly developed specimens a deep chestnut with warm reddish shades in his plumage, and the barrings on the flanks and under parts much heavier than in the typical bird. This variety is Bon- asa umbellus sabinvi in the scientists’ list. The Rocky Mountains have another variety, whose range is from Alaska, in the Yukon valley, southward to Colorado; a race of paler coloring and somewhat smaller size. The body color is made up of grayish tones and has very little of chestnut or reddish shades in the markings. From its color scheme this is often called the Gray Ruffed Grouse, Bonasa umbellus umbel- loides. In the intermediate districts they grade imperceptibly one into the other. In the grouse of Maine we find a wide variation in color. 18 FEATHERED GAME Some specimens might almost pass for the most distant varieties—red as Sabine’s or as light as those of the Rockies, and that, too, from the same nest. There is still more ‘‘feather-split- ting’’—a division of the eastern race into the variety, Bonasa umbellus togata, so named from the size of the ruffs, said to be more developed in this variety than in the typical bird. The body color is darker and the barrings on the flanks are heavier and blacker, also more and heav- ier dark markings on the buff of the throat than in the ordinary bird. This variety also aver- ages of larger size. The birds included in this classification are those of the northern and northeastern portions of the continent, west- ward to Manitoba. This is held to include the ruffed grouse of all our northern tier of States, westward as far as the Dakotas, and east and north through Canada. Thus our bird of Maine is a togata, but why need we care? By any other name he’d be as ‘‘foxy.’’ Our Ruffed Grouse cannot be improved upon whatever he is called. Long may he flourish in our woods and hills! The typical bird is supposed to dwell THE RUFFED GROUSE 19 throughout the remaining eastern and south- eastern portions of the United States. The Ruffed Grouse is about eighteen inches long, erect, sprightly and graceful in carriage and bearing, a pretty walker and a wonder- fully speedy runner, as anyone may prove to his entire satisfaction when he tries to capture a wounded bird, for when to the aid of its nim- ble feet it brings its half-spread wings, and with its toes barely touching the ground, half flies, half runs, only a good dog can overtake him, In color he is a beautiful chestnut brown, marked and penciled with gray and brownish black spots on neck, back, and breast—the col- ors to blend with the shade of dead grass and brown pine needles with the sunlight sifting down through the trees. There isa slight crest on his head, and on each side of the neck are the beautiful, glossy feather tufts from which the species takes its name. The ‘‘ruffles’’ are lus- trous purplish-black or bronze-brown—are smaller, it is said sometimes even lacking, in the females, and in no case of these that I have noticed have the dark feathers which make them 20 FEATHERED GAME met across the forebreast as in the males. It has been stated that the bronze ruff is the dis- tinguishing mark of the hen, but my own obser- vation would indicate that, in general, the red bird often has a bronze ruff, and the black or purplish ruff is found on the gray bird without regard to sex. It may be that the bird of three or four years of age is more likely to sport the dark ruffles, but I am not prepared to state it for a fact. The beautiful fan-like tail is finely barred with black on a gray or red-brown ground, with a broad subterminal band of black, each feather ending with an ashy gray tip. In the female the subterminal bar across the tail feathers is usually broken, or at least much less noticeable on the central pair, and while not an invariable rule, it is, with the interruption of the ruffle feathers across the breast, a pretty safe mark for distinguishing the sexes. How far these distinctions may hold in the typical bird I know not. My experience has been al- most entirely with the northern bird, togata, which is surely not the least worthy member of the family. The male bird will average three or four ounces heavier than the female, running from THE RUFFED GROUSE 21 twenty-two to twenty-seven ounces. The heav- iest bird of my own killing pulled the scales down to twenty-eight ounces, and this with an empty crop. The largest ‘‘partridge’’ that I ever saw weighed made a record of twenty- nine and one-half ounces. I am well aware that ““competent judges’’ will ‘‘estimate’’ and fur- nish much more imposing figures, but I have noticed that these do not always tally with the seales. During our driving New England snow- storms partridges will sometimes take refuge from the cutting blasts or for a night’s shelter from the cold by plunging from the wing into the heaped-up drifts, thence to emerge when the storm has passed. It is said that they are at times closed in by an icy sleet following upon the snow and making a crust through which they cannot break. In such cases the unfortu- nate prisoners are apt to furnish an unexpected feast to some prowling fox whose famine-sharp- ened nose has traced them out. This may cause more destruction than is realized, but the dan- ger is probably more theoretical than actual. There is usually small need to burrow at all in this latitude; furthermore, do you not think FEATHERED GAME at a heavy fall of snow in worse than zero 2ather (and nothing less would drive them to ver) with a rise of temperature sufficient to aw or rain, and then a ‘‘freeze,’’ each follow- g the other and all taking place within the sobable space of ten hours’ time is a very reat rarity even in a region as noted for eather eccentricities as is our dear New Eng- nd? From the many snug wigwams made by e pendant branches of evergreens or sturdy vofs of ‘‘junipers,’’ over-arched with snow, ieltering some storm-harassed partridge and irmnishing plenty of food of foxberry leaves id berries, which I see in my own range of oods I have small belief in any serious reduc- on in our grouse population from this cause. 2 such shelters as these it is almost impossible » be so closed in that Mr. Grouse cannot get it when he desires. Many times when an ice- ‘orm has been blamed for the apparent scarc- y of grouse they have only departed on one of leir regular ‘‘spring movings.’’ Surely, when re buds commence to swell and the ‘‘green lings growing’’ start up through the remain: ig ice-blanket we do not expect the bird to stay THE RUFFED GROUSE 23 in the thick growth and tall timber which made his winter home. The burrowing habit is common to nearly all northern grouse. With this species it is more common in the extreme northern part of its range, where the snowfall is heavier and the snow itself less likely to ‘‘crust.’’ Rocky, birch-clad hillsides, deep ravines with tangles of brush and slender streams wind- ing through their depths,—the thickest, most impenetrable cover that the woods afford— these are their favorite spots. A finer game bird, a brainier dweller in the wilds it is hard to find. All the more so when he has made the acquaintance of Nimrod and his hammerless gun. This for the bird near civilization, for. if we believe all we hear. of him in the ‘“‘big woods’’ we shall have small respect for his judgment. Still, we must make due allowance in ‘‘a hunter’s yarn,’’ which, as we know, gives us ‘‘the truth, the whole truth,’’—and as much more as we can swallow. About April they begin to mate and the woods resound with the ‘‘long roll’’ of the male, ‘‘drumming’’ his serenade to the lady of his FEATHERED GAME ice. Perhaps we should say ‘‘ladies,’’ for usually has several wives and would take re if he could get them. He struts up and m on some old fallen tree, with his tail st and widespread to its fullest extent, then denly dropping it and pressing it closely to log, his short, powerful and deeply con- ed wings beat a continuous roll, slowly at t, but rapidly increasing in speed and vol- », then dying away again. This noise nds like the rumble of far-off thunder and 7 be heard a long distance on a still day. + manner in which this ‘‘drumming”’ is pro- ed was a question for a long time undecided, 1y different theories being advanced. The idea was that he struck his wings upon a ow log, but if this were the case how does drum upon stones, sound logs, or the top of a fence? The solution most generally xpted is that this strange music is caused by vibration of the stiff quill feathers in their id motion through the air, these never touch- the body. The sound is very difficult to ite and from its peculiarly muffled tone ac- ate judgment of the performer’s distance is ost impossible. The bird will use the same ‘asnowS ddddnd THE RUFFED GROUSE 25 spot for his drumming for a long time, coming day after day to his chosen station. One old ‘‘drumming log”’ is still in use near where I am writing, although the screen of spruces for- merly protecting it has been cut down these three years and it is now fifty yards to the near- est cover. Mr. Grouse, if he survives the perils of the fall months, will return next season; if not, another will ‘‘take the stump”’ in the good cause and continue the business at the old stand. The courtship over and happily ended, the hen builds her nest in some secluded and safely hidden nook and begins housekeeping. Her home is a very modest affair, quite unpreten- tious. On the ground, in the shelter of a fall- en tree or in the shadow of a juniper bush a small depression is rounded out and lined with leaves, grass and dry pine needles—very little of the artistic but all for convenience and util- ity—simplicity itself. It contains from seven to sixteen eggs, creamy white, rather pointed at one end, and as may be guessed, when the youngsters arrive the mother bird has no lack of employment in caring for them, for at this season she leaves the male entirely and sets up housekeeping alone lest he destroy the nest and 26 FEATHERED GAME eggs. When the chicks are half grown the family is again united, the male bird usually joining during the latter part of August. The mother bird thus left to her own devices, displays great bravery in defense of her young, and will often fly at an intruder in the same fashion as a hen defending her brood. I re- member once when accompanied on a stroll through the woods by a bull terrier dog, that we came suddenly into a little opening among the trees and well-nigh stepped into a brood of little ‘‘cheepers.’’ The dog being in advance, mother partridge made a furious dash at him, and when the astonished animal refused to be frightened, she made still another desperate charge right into his face, when he at once struck her down and stood with this new species of hen under his feet, making as though he would finish her at once, but, being an obedient fellow, and perhaps with the remembrance of former whippings for chicken killing, he reluct- antly let her go with no more damage than a few ruffled feathers. She lost no time in getting away when set free, for her point was won and not a chick was in sight. Failing by force to repel an invasion on her THE RUFFED GROUSE 27 domain, she next tries cunning, and will drag herself along the ground for some distance just in front of her eager pursuer, and only when he thinks to seize the crippled and wing-broken bird does she dash from the ground and whiz away to the safety of the nearest thick growth. Meanwhile the young birds have crept into the brush, slipped under dead leaves, flattened themselves upon the ground, it may be at your very feet, and lie there motionless, disappearing as if by magic from a spot which one second be- fore was fairly alive with chirping and peeping little yellowish-brown fluffy balls running in every direction. Once safely hidden they re- main quiet and still until the danger is past and they hear again the low, mellow call of the mother bird as she gathers her brood to run and feed as though nothing had happened. Few are the farmers’ boys who have not ‘‘’Most caught a pa’tridge, only’’—and in that last word is the whole matter in a nut-shell—they didn’t, in just this way. Yet it is no matter for wonderment that Master Barefoot is deceived by these tricks, for a more perfect piece of acting is not to be seen. Do you know a burnt patch in the woods, or a 28 FEATHERED GAME clearing that the lumberman has made, now growing up with blackberries, raspberries, and all the underbrush which so quickly covers up these unsightly scars on mother Nature’s face? Then some bright September morning while the dew still glitters on blade and leaf, take your dog and gun and beat it up. A little amphi- theatre overgrown with berry bushes and low brush, walled in on every side by a sturdy growth of pines, spruces or hemlock, dark green and solid in their masses. One lone dead stub towers above the smaller and younger growth of the clearing. Gray and desolate it stands, bristling with the ragged and broken remains of its former lusty youth, and at its feet the bare ledge stone shows through its garment of moss, pine needles and scanty grass. Here is a low stump which a dozen changing seasons have almost levelled with the ground, and on its sides and at its base the marks of the par- tridges’ scratching feet as they search for the grubs and worms, tenants at will of its inner chambers. On one side a shallow, round hole scooped out of the dry earth shows where the bird has made his dust bath and lain basking in the sun during the warm afternoons. And on THE RUFFED GROUSE 29 this knoll—Whir-r-r! Quick, now! Too late! He dives down a ravine at the right and when he comes again into view he is too far away for shot to harm him. Where was the dog? I don’t hear his bell. Ah! There he is—creep- ing cautiously up to a clump of blackberry bushes. Carefully, now, for every quick-witted, sharp-sighted grouse in the clearing is on the alert since that first bird tore down the gully at full speed. See that puppy! Isn’t that a pic- ture for you? He performs like a veteran! He stiffens, and trembling with suppressed joy and eagerness, turns a cautious glance be- hind to see if you know the critical state of things, as slowly turns back again and stands a marble statue against the background of green waving brakes and moss-grown stumps. A sec- ond later you hear the resentful scolding— **Quit-quit! Quit-quit!’’"—a rapid patter of nimble feet on the dry leaves—Whir-r-r-r! Away he goes—a mere brown streak at light- ning speed! Perchance you have stopped their headlong rush many times before; in that case you may stop this one—if you have luck. It may be that this is your first experience, when it is 0 FEATHERED GAME robable that you will stand open-mouthed and ‘are with all the eyes in your head, until, diving ito the green depths a hundred yards away, oes another lost opportunity. You may even 2 as did another of my acquaintances near the aginning of his sylvan career. He had stood at gaze’’ at every rising grouse and was npty-handed in a cover where by moderate 1ooting skill he might have made a fair bag, mx the season was just beginning and the nung birds were lying well. He declared he ould do better at the next point (as they all >) and when the next bird flushed he threw his in to his shoulder and shouted, ‘‘Bang!’’ with l his lungs. He had the right idea, however, id can now hold his own with the most of em. That roaring, rushing flight is likely to con- ise any but a veteran. Yet no owl can fly ore noiselessly than he when he is so minded. know many a good duck- and snipe-shot that ill invariably forget to shoot when Mr. Grouse ishes out—Steady, now! Another point! ‘hir-r-r! Away he goes and as you pull trig- or he swerves suddenly from his course and yu have missed him. Yes, your muttered re- THE RUFFED GROUSE 31 mark was apt and appropriate, but better luck next time. The dog moves up and points just where the last bird burst out from among the junipers, and you laugh and say, ‘‘One on you, old boy!’’ and come carelessly up to stand by his side as you reload. At the snap of your gun as you close it another bird dashes out al- most from beneath your feet. What a chance! Straightaway, and as steady as a standing mark! The shot of a lifetime! Bang! And as the gentle breeze carries off the thin blue haze of the nitro you catch a glimpse of his falling body. Thud! The strong wings beat a rapid tattoo upon the dead leaves, scattering the brown pine needles, then are still. The feathers drift down wind in a cloud, and re- loading as you go, you hasten to gather him in. For a short time the fun is fast and furious; the covey puts for the thick of the woods singly and in pairs, leaving toll, let us hope, and giv- ing you rare sport. When all have left the open you go down into the gully where the noon- day sun scarcely penetrates. At the bottom a slender stream complains and gurgiles as it tumbles over mossy stones and twists under fallen tree trunks. There he goes! Your gun , FEATHERED GAME at your shoulder but you see him only dimly id mark his course mostly by the shaking vigs and so decide to wait until he tops yon illen tree and comes more clearly into view. hus you learn that you must take this fellow hen you can, for he knows better than to rise to your open view like that. Such a move ight do for a woodcock, but this master of van strategy knows a trick worth two of iat. He dives below the log, runs into the inkly growing brakes and fifty yards beyond zain takes wing to fly in safety into a thick »mlock on the side hill. You lower your gun ad exclaim, ‘‘ Well, I’ll be hanged!’’ (or words 1 that effect), and a red squirrel, sole witness > your defeat, goes scurrying up the spruce ‘ee at your side and jeers and chuckles and sasses’’ you with all the wild-wood impudence : his command. No opportunity should be al- wed to pass unimproved if you are to make good score. Your percentage of kills to car- ‘idges used is bound to be small, so don’t try » “‘fatten your average’’ by picking shots. nder ordinary conditions one cannot make a ag of Ruffed Grouse and be sparing of his mmunition. It is often necessary to shoot THE RUFFED GROUS 33 through the brushy screen at the sound of their wings—pull trigger at the glimmer of a feather, or through the leaves where the bird may be— taking every chance, however slight, to bring this game to bag. I think all ‘‘brush gunners’’ will agree that this is not the easiest bird to hit when once on the wing—a mere flash of quick- moving, roaring wings, and a glimmer of sun- light on his russet-brown back—gone! Per- haps the cunning rascal marked where you stood and ran swiftly to get a thick hemlock be- tween himself and your gun, then a leap into the air, an arrowy flight, and when you have hurried to one side to get a sight at him he is two gunshots away. ‘‘Don’t they ever give you a sitting shot?’’ O, yes! When you are tangled up on the points of a wire fence, with one barb stuck into the middle of your back just where it cannot be reached with either hand, and another induce- ment to profanity has a grip on the leg of your trousers,—at such times a grouse will often ‘‘flap’’ lazily from the ground into a tree right over your back and perch where you can see him only by twisting your neck almost off, but. shoot? O, no! There he will sit and criticise 34 FEATHERED GAME the language in which you voice your benevo- lent wishes for the future welfare of the invent- or of that style of fence (may they be fulfilled!) until he sees signs of the barbs letting go their hold, when he is away like a bullet, his wings a mere haze as they roar through the branches. Occasionally the farmer’s cur is ‘‘trained’’ for a ‘‘pa’tridge dawg;’’ that is to say, his nat- ural propensities to bark and ‘‘yap’’ are turned to some account He runs in upon the young flocks, which instantly take to the trees; the dog then makes such a noise with his continua’ yelping and running about that the birds see and hear nothing but this miserable intruder, and so allow the mighty hunter to creep unob- served within easy distance, maybe to take a resting shot at their motionless bodies. Often honest cocker spaniels are degraded by this low practice. In the mind of the sportsman this stands almost as high as driving a doe to water and paddling a canoe alongside to blow her brains out with a charge of buckshot. There is a widespread notion that when a flock is thus ‘‘treed’’ a pot-shooter may secure several birds before they will take alarm and fly if he will take care to shoot the lowest one (¢SdUNYS UAOIB-SsOUI PUR SayBiq SUARM UII3 Jo punolsy2eq 94} ysulese anjejs a[qivul v spuv}s pue uleSe yovq suiny A[MOTS SB ‘ssuIY} JO 9}e}S [BID BY} AMoUy NOA JI 38S 0} pulyaq aue]s snoined vw suINy ay ‘sseuJesva pue Aof passaiddns yy Sul[quisiy ,, THE RUFFED GROUSE 35 first and thus avoid alarming the flock by the dead birds’ tumbling down among them. I do not say this cannot be done; I only say that I have never seen it done—hope [I never shall— and while this may take place in the northern wilderness, the shooter who counts on getting more than one chance at a roosting flock in the covers near civilization is laying up material for his own disappointment. The Ruffed Grouse in my locality, at least, have passed this stage in their intellectual development these many years, and in the east generally, the sportsman fairly earns all of these birds which his skill and good fortune combine to bring into his hands. Though any lawful season is a good time to hunt this game, most sportsmen prefer the sport when October’s frosts and winds have swept some of the brown leaves from the branches in the covers, when with the glorious autumn weather, the brilliant colors of the flam- ing maples, the softer tones of oak and birch, chestnut and beech trees, the life-giving Octo- ber air, together with a fair prospect of captur- ing this gallant bird, there could scarcely be a better season to put in a happy day in the 36 FEATHERED GAME woods. Add the fact that the bird itself, now full-fledged and confident in the powers of its wings, lies closer at this latter part of the sea- son, thus giving a much better chance, and one may easily see why the sportsman will prefer this month. Many are the fine opportunities on the rocky hillsides where the leafless birches show their white shafts against the dull gray ledges; where the dead leaves, frost- killed and damp on the mossy rocks, give back no sound to the stealthy foot-fall of the gunner. Among the bare brown stems and boughs the grouse goes away like a shooting star and is seen much more clearly than in September’s profusion of green leaves. It is well for two men to work together in such a place, as the Grouse will commonly fly up over the ledge when flushed, and there will be more chance of capturing the birds if one gun be posted on the lower level and its companion be on the ridge. If the bird is not shot at the chances are that it will alight just over the brow of the hill and lie close next time. If, however, the gunner be above him when he darts away he must trust to luck and his own eyes to tell him the direction which his intended victim takes, as commonly THE RUFFED GROUSE 37 the bird will fly straight down to the bottom and when out of sight turn sharply to one side for another hundred yards. If I may have but one month for partridge shooting give me November. Lowery skies, the threat of a storm in the chill air, when the birds are putting in provisions for the days of hun- ger which a snowstorm makes; or the first bright day after the storm has passed and the birds have come out on the sunny spots to bask in the warmth they now appreciate. I shall ever hold one old hill in warm remembrance for many days of glorious sport along its rocky spurs. A high, gray ledge, pine- and hemlock- covered on the crown and base, its slopes clad with sumac, blackberry bushes, wild rose bushes, scattered scrub pines and small birches, the naked rocks half buried in the junipers, and a few lordly chestnut trees towering over all. My last day of the season as a sample of many: two days of rain and sleet, cold and miserable, and on the third day the storm breaking and the afternoon sun flooding the hillsides. From a sense of duty I had hunted the alder coverts and the thick growths which had sheltered them on other days, where a few difficult shots had FEATHERED GAME ade no returns. But we are on the old ledge more open cover at last. Scarcely have we sared the denser growth when the dog comes a halt. A warning glance at his master and : commences trailing. Through the thickets hich straggle away from the main body of the oods,—advanced guards creeping out among e rocks,—down into the junipers below, on 1d on, stopping here and there to point as the rd halts, ever careful lest he start the game 0 soon, waiting until his master gains a place here he may shoot if the bird rises. Aha! rozen for keeps! Just the tip of his white ern showing past the green wall of the juni- ars. Whir-r-r-r-r! Bang! Bang! ‘‘Da—er -Thunderation!’’ Away scales Mr. Grouse, topping down the hillside like an arrow slant- ig earthward after a flight. Near the foot he irns and careers out over the tops of the trees ) disappear among them three hundred yards way. ‘‘Well, little dog, a good pointer and a ood gun are clean wasted on such a master. ‘ut how should I know he would throw a sum- versault like that? Both loads went yards ver his back and I defy anyone to have pointed THE RUFFED GROUSE 39 a gun-muzzle below him. Well, better luck next time, let us hope.’’ Fifty yards farther on, the same careful drawing to a final ‘‘stagey’’ pose. Whir-r-r-r! and a big cock partridge dashes up into the shel- ter of the birches above us. Bang! ‘‘Fetch him, good boy! That’s better. That’s’’—In the act of holding the bird to his master’s hand the dog has wheeled and pointed, carefully put- ting down his trophy and moving in a step or two. The monologue flags, then ceases. Right at the dog’s side I wait, then give a low chirrup for him to go on. This one I must have and things look most promising. Whir-r-r-r! Bang! ‘‘What!’’ Bang! and at the second shot the bird tumbles in a cloud of feathers, a long forty yards away, close to the thick woods on the hilltop. Together, dog and I, we scram- ble through the briars to the summit, the pointer just a bit in front. He pulls up short and points. ‘‘All right, old man. Yes, it was just here he fell. Fetch! No? Well, I can pick him up myself,’? and so I do—er—not! - With a thunderous roar of hurrying wings the bird flushes under foot, rocketing into the tree 40 FEATHERED GAME tops, followed by two hasty shots, one from the hip, the other with the gun-butt under my arm- pit, and taken completely unaware, both charges tear great rents through the yellow- leaved chestnuts and screening pines, but for the bird only causing more haste where already speed was not lacking. My dog, with a comical wriggle of his tail to show his appreciation of the joke on his master, takes a few steps to the left and brings to my astonished gaze the bird we had seen fall. When shall I learn to trust entirely to that keen nose and fine wit which is by far the most important member of our part- nership? With the last trophy safely stowed, we move on to further conquests. Over a stone wall out into a low spot between two spurs of the hill. An old apple tree and a few thick pines make the setting of a picture which has for a centre of interest the motionless figure of the white pointer dog. Forty yards away two grouse rise and tear away up hill. Two hasty shots sent after them just as they turn the crest of the ridge never ruffle a feather, but the reports start four more close at hand, which offer the easiest of shots to my empty weapon. I rush THE RUFFED GROUSE 41 a couple of cartridges into the chambers and aim at the hindmost just as the woods are clos- ing in upon it, but return to sanity, just then catching sight of the fact that all this time old Level-head hasn’t moved a muscle. In an in- stant more I stand beside him, pull my hat down a bit tighter, draw a couple of long breaths, test the safety catch of the gun to be sure it is in the right place, and by these processes of mental philosophy manage to steady my nerves a trifle. A low cluck to the dog and he moves in, his tail wagging ever so slightly. Again he stops, and at my approach up jump two big fantails, not ten feet away, bursting out from the junipers with the roar of a tornado. A quick snapshot (a clear case of suicide on the bird’s part, for I know not where I held) ac- counts for one, and holding well over the other, who is climbing skyward to clear the trees, he, too, comes down! Can I believe it? A double! This is not one of the shots I forget when re- counting this day’s doings! Up on the hill-top where we go in pursuit we find the other members of the covey. But things are different here. Cover is plenty and though the birds lie close enough, the ever- 42 FEATHERED GAME greens behind which they invariably flush make impervious screens for certain noisily-departing forms going comet-like among the trees. I note that I do not kill each bird that rises; that how- ever I plan to get a shot the bird makes other arrangements. I remember the newspaper hero who has killed a thousand ‘‘partridges’’ in a day on his English estate and wonder what his average would be here. Still, in no nig- gardly spirit, I continue driving good ammuni- tion into the tree trunks and shooting unprofit- able holes into the ‘‘cireumambient ether ;’’ but this is a part of the fun—this, and the prying of rose thorns out of my shins, to be done later on. So we press on, ever keeping up a brisk action with the rear guard, hoping to drive them through this cover into another rock-, birch-, and scrub-pine paradise beyond the thick. Here we have a better chance and again we find our opportunity. The dog is beating up hill and down across my path. He whirls and stands braced as though he feared someone might push him against the bird. I rush to a flat, table-like rock which commands a good view of the surroundings and stand facing the dog, awaiting developments. Scarcely am I THE RUFFED GROUSE 43 placed when almost from under foot out dashes a big red beauty and curls around my head in a nerve-tangling curve. I try to turn with him and just clear his steering gear with the first cartridge, to steady down and make a good clean kill with the second as he is entering the tall timber. Mr. Dog retrieves him proudly, glad to see his master score an average of one kill to five cartridges. It is grand sport to stop their swift career (if you can, for not every bungler can do this trick) and it makes the pulses leap to see them come hurtling to the ground. The birds are now no weaklings—no half-fledged youngsters still running with the mother, but plump and well-grown beauties and the best game which the New England gunner, or for that matter any other student of the smoothbore, ever brings to bag. For success all the requisites of the true sportsman and the highest quality of work by the dog are needed. The bird may lead your dog a long chase through the timber, over rocks, through briars and brush, keeping him “‘roading’’ and ‘‘pointing’’ until both have dis- tanced the gun, and at such times he makes a 44 FEATHERED GAME sore trial of your treasure’s temper and staunchness. Next time perhaps he may flush from under your very feet. In most cases his flight is not longer than from three to four hun- dred yards, so that, knowing your ground, you may get another chance if you fail to stop him the first time. It takes a good load of shot and that well placed, too, if this bold rover is to be your prize. He will fly till his last breath,— yes, and set his wings and scale even after that; or if only wing-broken will run and skulk and crawl into brush heaps until pursuit is useless. Many a grouse carries his death with him as he flies the hunter, when, if only followed, he would be found perhaps a hundred yards away, still and lifeless. They are the ‘‘grittiest’’ birds that dwell in our land. Perhaps some brother sportsman has seen a grouse when wounded and seemingly crazed, fly straight upward, struggling to the last gasp, then all at once collapse and come tumbling to the earth like a stone. Usually such birds are found to be shot through the eyes and brain. I lost one once in this manner, for he fell into the top of a clump of unclimbable ‘‘old original RUFFED GROUSE SHOOTING. THE RUFFED GROUSE 45 pines’’ in such a fashion that there was no dis- lodging him. One word as to the Ruffed Grouse’s habit be- fore the dog: I believe the dog is the most im- portant element in the grouse shooter’s good- or ill-fortune. I know that many sportsmen berate our hero because ‘‘he won’t lay to a dog.’’ There are cases where we cannot blame the bird. Neither you nor I would stay in the neighborhood of a dog which tears through the brush like an express train, or whose master is continually yelling commands and compliments at his riotous brute. It is enough to shatter stronger nerves than those of Mr. Grouse. Alas, the language we have heard! And that, too, directed at dogs that a few short hours be- fore were vaunted by their masters as simply matchless in their glorious perfections of nose, brain and ‘‘bird-sense.’’ For success in grouse-shooting a cautious, close-working dog is the most important thing in the outfit; one that loves to pit his own brains and skill against the craft of the bird; whose eye is ever alert to the slightest sign from his mas- ter, realizing that the gun also has a part to 46 FEATHERED GAME play in the day’s sport; who only wants a low whistle or a wave of the hand for guidance, needing no spoken command. I lay great stress upon silence, believing that most wild creatures are less afraid of the report of a gun than of the human voice. The successful grouse dog is the most finished product of the dog trainer’s art, making glad the heart of his master. If your four-footed friend excels in his work on ruffed grouse be satisfied that he is a good performer on any game bird, and will never cause his mas- ter to blush for him in any company. ‘‘A mar- vel,’? you say? My dear sir, the only marvel is that we will not take the pains to bring our dogs to this pitch of perfection. The good grouse dog is rare. Not every puppy can be trained to the requirements. It almost seems that the good one on ruffed grouse, like a poet, ‘‘is born, not made.’’ Cer- tainly poets are the heavier and less valuable crop. Training will do much for the dog, but all too often this branch of his education is con- fined to his first experience, when with all a puppy’s life pulsing through his veins, his cup of joy bubbling over, he comes suddenly upon a covey of ruffed grouse. That divine scent THE RUFFED GROUSE 47 wells up into his nostrils, and, wild with the joy of that soul-stirring moment, amazed at their roaring wings, is it wonderful that he does not perform like a veteran? My sports- man friend, did you yourself score on your first hurtling grouse? Have you always controlled your startled nerves, making the most of every favorable opportunity? I trow not! Then shall we not have a little patience and with more experience reverse our first unfavorabie decision? Maybe a good grouse dog is lost there—who knows? But the puppy gets no chance to atone for his mistake and commonly is never again allowed to look at ruffed grouse if his master can prevent, so that this is all the schooling he gets in the ways of hunting this bird. His master, instead of taking the pains needful to teach his companion, becomes at once a woodcock enthusiast and condemns the grouse and all who admire him, finishing the puppy’s education on ‘‘timberdoodles’’ alone. Yet it is only a matter of patience and tact, and more of the same patience and tact, but great is the reward thereof! Having in mind the nature of ruffed grouse haunts, the difficulty of two legs keeping pace FEATHERED GAME th four, and the ease with which a hunter may 1 wrong if his dog, for the moment out of sight the thick growth, makes a sudden change of rection in the trailing, I believe that the dog at is never more than forty yards from the in,—better yet if he keeps closer and no pot- rer even if he does, my dear unbeliever— at stops instantly at the first whiff of scent at touches his nostrils; trails slowly and care- lly, knowing just how far he may crowd his me and never overstepping that limit,—will ¢ for his master more and better shots than e more dashing, field-trial, wider ranging dog better nose and even greater bird-finding ility. We all know, however, that this latter yle is the more fashionable—and the more mmon: Also that their owners are very en- usiastic over wood-cocking—(and it is a noble ort; far be it from me to disparage it)—and e apt to speak disrespectfully of the grouse cause it has so little of the accommodating sposition of their favorite, who generally ies his best to help the sportsman score a kill, en patiently waiting until the gunner can mt up his dog when he has at last ceased iistling and shouting and has decided that his THE RUFFED GROUSE 49 prize beauty is ‘‘somewhere on a point, (that is, if he hasn’t run away clear out of the county.’’) The parenthesis, of course, under his breath along with some other comments which do not sound as well. Now Mr. Grouse does not be- lieve in such tactics: as a result he will be plan- ning his annual increase to the game supply long after the moths have finished that dining room ornament which was ‘‘The last woodcock killed in this section, Sir! And it’s too bad they were all killed off, isn’t it?’’ The Ruffed Grouse is a great rover. When the young become strong and able to fly well the flocks roam through the woods from one feeding ground to another—here to-day, to- morrow gone. In the fall they haunt the hard wood growths along the lake shores, and the rocky, oak-grown margins of the sea, moving from place to place as they tire of the spot or food begins to fail, crossing to near-by islands, for however much they may dislike to fly across bodies of water in the ‘‘Big Woods,’’ they do not hesitate to make long flights over the small arms of the sea, and in more culti- vated districts, flying on occasion a mile at a stretch. As the season advances they come 50 FEATHERED GAME nearer to the farms and orchards, and old apple trees in the woods or a deserted orchard hid- den away from travelled roads and near the forests are favorite spots and much frequented by them, as are likewise in their proper season the gullies where the ripe, red ‘‘thorn plums’’ are to be had for the picking. In berry and fruit time their food is almost entirely of this sort. In fact, from his readiness to eat almost any of Mother Nature’s cookery the Ruffed Grouse is in prime condition the year around. There is scarcely a game bird so satisfactory from all points of view as is our hero: a brave, strong-flying bird, a brainy and worthy an- tagonist from the sportsman’s standpoint, and in the estimation of the epicure a great deli- cacy. Although numerous attempts have been made to domesticate the Ruffed Grouse nearly all such have failed. The wild instincts of the free forest rover have usually triumphed over the easy but dull round of barnyard life even in chicks raised and cared for by the domestic hen, as they have almost invariably departed for the woods as soon as they were able to shift for themselves, or if unable to escape have THE WILLOW GROUSE dl pined away and died for the lack of their for- est freedom. Would that someone might solve this prob- lem of grouse-breeding if only to aid in restock- ing our covers. But the prospect brightens each year with the education of our people and the consequent growing sentiment in favor of rigid game protection. Give the Ruffed Grouse half a chance and he will take care of the matter of future game supply. There is nothing in our wilds so thoroughly able to take care of itself as Mr. Bonasa Umbellus. Let us be duly thankful therefor. THE WILLOW GROUSE. PTARMIGAN. (Lagopus lagopus.) Very rare in New England. When found it is only in the northernmost sections and in the coldest weather, when a few straggle away. from the great flocks which come down out of the north at the approach of winter, for it is partially migratory and changes quarters southward at this season. In earlier times these birds seem to have been not uncommon in northern and eastern Maine in the winter 52 FEATHERED GAME months, but of late years very rarely indeed is one taken. The Willow Grouse inhabits a wide range of country, including the northern parts of Eu- rope and Asia and the whole of North America from the northern boundary -of the United States far into the Arctic regions, in summer spreading out over the almost treeless ‘‘barren lands’’ which extend along the shores of the Arctic ocean, and in winter retreating to the shelter of the thick woods which stretch away northwesterly mile after mile across Canada from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It is a dweller on the rocky heaths and swampy grounds, and not so fond of the woods as are most northern grouse. As a rule, the Ptarmigan takes to the forests only when obliged to do so for safety or when driven by stress of weather, coming out into the openings as soon as ever the sun gets a bit of ground un- covered in the spring. During the summer months they live upon berries and insects. Through the long Arctic winter they subsist on the buds of the brush and dwarfed willows which are scattered through the frozen bogs. They are somewhat nocturnal in their habits, “ASNOUD MOTIIM THE WILLOW GROUSE 53 mostly preferring to feed about sundown or during the night. In their breeding habits they resemble the rest of the family, building their nests upon the ground, generally at the base of some great rock or in a clump of stunted birches or Arctic willows or at the edge of an opening in the woods. They lay from eight to ten eggs, of a buff color, heavily blotched with dark red- brown spots. Unlike the ruffed grouse Mr. Ptarmigan is a good husband and assists in the upbringing of his offspring,—rather an unusual thing among the grouse family, where as a rule the male is a polygamous old rascal, perhaps because he is unable to choose between the fair ones and so plays no favorites. Therefore when disturbed with their young instead of resorting to the craft and strategems of the ‘‘partridge’’ in similar stress, the male bird will dash about the head of an intruder, in his desperate attack coming near enough to be killed with a stick if one be mean enough to do sucha thing. All this time the young are running away and hiding in obedience to the mother bird’s anxious warn- ings. Fortunately for them their enemies are FEATHERED GAME rarly all in fur and feathers, the Arctic fox id snowy owl, though the Indian takes a gen- ous share, generally during the fall migra- ms, when, as they are easily trapped, the ‘armigan becomes an important item in his et. Since they dwell in a country full of rger game and because of their distance from ortsmen of shot-gun propensities, they are it much hunted, but those sportsmen who ve made shooting trips to Newfoundland ive enjoyed rare sport with them and are en- usiastic in their praise. They claim that the ‘armigan is equal to any of the grouse family game qualities and speak highly of its habits fore the dog. Its flesh, also, ranks well, that the young bird being especially delicate. When they rise from the ground their wings not make such a clatter as do those of the ffed grouse when he starts,—probably be- use of the soft and fluffy quality of the feath- 3,—but their flight is easy, strong and well stained. Their plumage during the breeding season d summer months is a mixture of white and ddish brown, finely barred with black. No © specimens will be found to be marked ex- THE WILLOW GROUSE 55 actly alike. The dress of each bird is contin- ually changing,—(they moult three times a year)—-varying the proportion of each colored area and seeming to put on the new coat a feather at a time before the last suit is fairly donned. In winter they are snow white ex- cept the tail feathers, which are black, white tipped, and the wing quill shafts, also black. There is a red patch above the eye as in the spruce grouse. The legs and feet are covered, even down to the ends of the toes, with fine, hair-like feathers which make them a good pair of snow shoes. It needs sharp eyes to see them where they crouch in the snow when clad in their winter garb, lying motionless in the drifts, or when in summer their coat of reddish brown matches so well the dead grass and bare rocks of their chosen wilderness. If pursued they may dash off to a safe dis- tance, then coming to earth may run a little way, then suddenly squat upon the ground, re- maining motionless until the danger has passed or they are forced to fly to prevent capture. If the snow be on the ground they may dash head- long into the loose drifts, making their way well into them, to remain hidden; or mayhap } FEATHERED GAME issing some distance through them to creep refully out and fly noiselessly away when fe to do so. They often dive into the snow r shelter or to pass the night in winter, dash- g into it from the air and working their way r under the drifts for safety’s sake. They e said to be very careful not to touch their et to the snow in entering it in this little piece strategy, in order not to leave a scent for iy prowling fox to trace them out. In size the Willow Grouse is a trifle smaller an the spruce grouse—(length about four- 2 inches)—but its heavily feathered body oks larger than it really is. Out of the ten different races of Ptarmigans, any so nearly alike that even a scientist can- t always name them to a certainty without e knowledge of the locality in which a speci- m was taken, this is the only visitor to New agland, and this one but rarely. The bird at the left in the plate is in the win- r dress; the bird at the right is in the sum- or plumage. THE “QUAIL”’ o7 THE ‘‘QUAIL.”” BOB WHITE. PARTRIDGE. (Colinus virginianus.) Because of the wide extent of country over which he dwells, and because of his large ac- quaintance among the shooting fraternity the ‘‘Quail’’ may make a strong claim for the honor of being the prime game bird of America —the bird known and with good reason appre- ciated by the largest number of our sportsmen. There are many good reasons for this popular- ity, chief of which are his thoroughly game habits, close lying before the dog, beautifully direct flight, and the comparatively open na- ture of the country in which he is usually found. All these combine to make quail-shooting mag- nificent sport. ‘“‘Bob White,’’ as he gives us his name in his merrier moods, is found on the continent of North America from the Atlantic ocean to the Rocky mountains, from Canada to the Gulf, has crossed the border into the northern states of the Mexican Republic, and is a citizen of the island of Cuba. The bird has also been intro- 58 FEATHERED GAME duced into several localities west of the Rockies and is said to be thriving and flourishing in these new homes. Unhappily for the sportsmen of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, in New England the Quail is resident only in the southern part, and is at any season but a rare straggler northward of Massachusetts. It is likely that our winter weather is too severe for him, or it may be that we lack grains and seeds for him to feed upon when the snows have come. At all events, though the sportsmen’s clubs of these sections have often liberated Quails in the hope that they might thus make a valuable addition to our list of game birds, they have rarely stayed with us longer than the first season, raising our hopes with their cheerful whistling through one brief summer and then disappearing to return no more. Whether they have moved southward at the approach of cold weather (by no means an unusual occurrence in the north, I think) or have failed to survive the winter, seems to be an open question. It is probable that the former is often the true reason for their disappearance, for with the small chance of a grain or seed diet when New England’s winter THE ‘‘QUAIL’’ 59 has fairly closed in upon us, their prospect for food must be slight indeed, and, knowing this, Bob White takes no chances. In most cases the birds for stocking our covers have been ob- tained from southern localities, which fact would seem to argue a less fitness to endure the rigors of our winters. If the experiment were to be tried with birds procured from the northern part of the habitat of the Quail per- haps the result would be more satisfactory ; surely there would be a larger percentage to survive the winter among those that remained with us. It is probable that such birds could be successfully transplanted here, needing only a chance to forage in some buckwheat field dur- ing the two coldest months. (Just notice how rarely a Quail is found frozen to death with a full crop.) At all other seasons they would surely be bountifully supplied with everything necessary to Quail comfort. ‘‘Bob White’’ has been successfully transplanted into Sweden, and it certainly seems as though he ought to do as well in northern New England. But where we have failed Dame Nature is doing better, and little by little these birds are becoming ac- customed to our climate and conditions and are 60 FEATHERED GAME gradually spreading northward as well as west- ward. We northerners may well be pleased to gain such gallant little citizens. In these new surroundings they are said to be taking more and more to grouse habits, both in strategy and in mode of life, evincing a disposition to hide in trees when much harried, and for the night— traits which are not common further south. All through the fall and winter months the birds keep together in good-sized flocks, but at the approach of the breeding season the peace and quiet of the covey is changed for fierce and savage contests among the males in strife for the favors of their charmers. The covey be- gins to break up, and as each valiant little knight wins his fair lady by force of arms they seek together some fitting nook in the fence corner or in the edge of the brush and there make their home. About May they begin to build their nest, making it upon the ground, of leaves and dry grasses. Often it is deep and cup-shaped, sometimes domed over and hav- ing an entrance on the side. The number of eggs varies. Probably ten youngsters to a brood is a liberal estimate for the north, though anywhere from twelve to twenty eggs or even THE “QUAIL” 61 more may be found in a nest, in which case they are arranged in tiers with the small ends inward and downward. Usually the larger settings are the result of ‘‘co-operative housekeeping’’ when two females use the same nest. Good husband that he is, the male bird does his share of the duties of incubation as well as keeping watch while the female sits. He also aids in the care of the young when they have made their appearance, covering them with wings and body in the same fashion as does the female, and in case of danger to the brood boldly confronts the enemy while the mother bird conducts the retreat. If the female is alone at such times she acts much as does the ruffed grouse in a like crisis, feigning to be crippled and keeping just out of the reach of her pursuer she leads him a long chase, sud- denly recovering and dashing away if the pur- suit is too close. The brood meantime scatters in a dozen different directions, gathering again when the old bird sounds the ‘‘assembly.’’ After the young birds have gained more strength all this is easily avoided by their tak- ing to wing—each one heading for the nearest growth and seeking concealment in the brush. 62° FEATHERED GAME In the Southern States it is likely that two broods are sometimes raised in a season but this is certainly not the rule in New England. Where this does occur the male assumes all re- sponsibility for the first brood, thus leaving his mate free to care for the newcomers. During the summer Bob White leads a merry, happy-go-lucky life, with few, if any cares, but the winter months for such as remain in New England after the fall shooting is over must be a dreary time of hardship and hunger. In many cases they wander away to more favored districts further south. All through the north- ern range there seems to be a partial migra- tion of Quail southward at the approach of win- ter—not all, but a part of the Quail population leaving their summer homes until the spring commences. Those which remain to brave our snow and cold are apt to haunt the settlements and the outskirts of the villages, often inviting themselves to breakfast with the farmer’s hens and becoming for the time quite tame. The Quail has been domesticated with much success and breeds quite readily in captivity. Though not brilliantly colored ‘‘Bob White’? is a beautiful bird. His back and wings are BOB WHITE. THE “QUAIL” 63 of a reddish brown hue, mottled and banded with yellow, black, and a bluish gray, which gives his plumage a purplish bloom. His breast is of the same reddish tinge, fading into a grayish white, these colors irregularly barred with fine jet black lines. The feathers of the top of the head are a trifle elongated and may be erected into a slight crest. A white band beginning at the base of the bill runs over each eye to the nape. On the throat is a broad patch of snowy white, bordered with black, as is also the line above the eye, just men- tioned. The female is similarly marked, though paler in hue, and the lines over the eyes and the patch on the throat are dull yellow. The male bird is about ten inches long, and in extent of wings fifteen inches; female a trifle smaller. Weight averages between six and eight ounces. ‘“‘Bob White’’ varies much in his shading and depth of color in the different parts of his range. In general the northern Quail is larger, stronger of flight and rather more brilliantly colored than the bird of the south and south- west; the Bob White of the last named section is especially pale in coloring. But even in the 64 FEATHERED GAME same covey are found birds differing widely in degree of coloring. ‘“‘Bob White’’ starts up in the morning, shakes out his feathers, and leaving the little circle which with his mates he has formed for the night—heads outward, everyone, so that each member shall have plenty of space for ac- tion if forced to fly—he trips away across the dewy fields for his favorite feeding grounds. Here he arrives about the time the sun has warmed the air and the world has fairly thrown off its slumber. Across the sunny meadows he takes his way, pausing to pick a berry here, and gathering in now a cricket, now a grass- hopper, and putting away a good breakfast with a hearty relish. The ripening wheat, the buckwheat fields, or the corn-patch, if it is in a quiet place, is likely to receive a visit from him. In fact, almost any spot, whether brush or open, is apt to hold him if there is a dainty there which he appreciates. The quail man’s heart is glad: there is a lull in the money-getting and he finds again a chance to tread the fields and brushy corners so dear from the memories of glorious days of sport. His hour has come at last. Over the THE ‘‘QUAIL’’ 65 fence the sportsman goes, his dog all a-wrig- gle with joy. Toiling to keep up and envying his comrade that extra pair of legs, the man ploughs through the briars and pushes his way through thick-growing alder clumps along the springy gullies, into the birches—the same haunts which charm the grouse—and strides down the fence line, broad-margined with its tangle of weeds, rosebriars and blackberry bushes, with scrubby pines and young trees of various sorts growing along its devious way. A gravelly path across the fields lies athwart the pointer’s track and as he runs the tell-tale scent suddenly reaches the quivering high-lifted nostrils. He plows the sand with all four feet in the effort to stop, then wheels at right angles and draws on a few steps to halt with tense muscles and glaring eyes. He has them! The sportsman pauses to admire the scene before the spell is broken, and his heart throbs high with pleasure and pride in the performance of this, his chiefest jewel. Then at his close ap- proach, with the rustle and roar of many striv- ing pinions the air is suddenly filled with fly- ing forms—little balls of brown with a haze at each side where are their buzzing wings. 66 FEATHERED GAME Each in a different course they bustle away and in his haste the novice mayhap ‘‘shoots into the bunch,’’ to find to his surprise that there is a whole lot of sky with no Quail flying in it. The veteran usually, but not invariably, re- members to choose a bird and may get one with each barrel. Because of their close lying the bulk of the shots are straight away and so are fairly easy, but the cross shots at short range —O, my! Still, all in all, I think quail shoot- ing is easier than any wood shooting in New England at grouse or ’cock, partly because Mr. Quail seldom, if ever, uses that favorite trick of Bonasa, tangling his enemy’s legs into a knot as he tries to follow the bird’s swift circle around the shooter’s head. Sev- eral times I have seen shooting companions thus caught with legs askew sit down suddenly from the recoil of their weapons in an attempt to stop a curling grouse. Kills are few in such cases. Then, too, the woodcock’s tower- ing start and erratic course when alarmed is to most sportsmen a much more difficult propo- sition than the bee-line directness of Bob White. As a rule when a covey is flushed they fly only a few hundred yards. Perhaps next time THE “QUAIL” 67 they scatter in every direction when started from the ground and may then be picked up in detail. In most cases the covey keeps to one particular neighborhood, rarely going far away, and may usually be found when wanted. In the early part of the season they are likely to be found in the brushy covers, but at the close are oftener in the open. While it lasts the Quail’s flight is a terrific burst of speed. It requires more than ordin- ary shooting ability to make a good average of birds in proportion to the number of cartridges used; especially is this so in the thick covert. He will carry off a good load of shot, too, will Mr. Quail, for the little fellow has that high order of courage, the heritage of his family, which keeps him still doing his best just so long as he can flutter a feather. In quail shooting in the open, however, it seems as though a good ‘‘clay-bird’’ shot should account for a fair percentage of his cartridges, since the gamey ‘‘bluerock’’ flies much like the Quail. Much has been said of the Quail’s ability to ‘‘retain his scent.’? May it not be that the bird is only trying to conceal itself and by hug- ging its feathers closely and never stirring 68 FEATHERED GAME from the spot on which it has alighted thus re- duces its body scent to a minimum and leaves no footscent to assist its enemy? The best of dogs may sometimes walk straight through a covey thus hidden and unless some frightened bird stirs or breaks away he has little chance of discovering their presence. Whether the bird is voluntarily ‘‘witholding its scent’’ or is merely making itself as small as possible in order to avoid detection in this hugging the feathers down is an open question. There is no doubt that dogs are sometimes unaccount- ably at fault in such cases. J have seen some- thing similar in the woodcock covers, when a woodcock, killed cleanly in the air and fallen into a slight hollow in the ground, its wings folded close to its sides, head and beak under- neath, has made a good dog some minutes’ work to locate it. But when with the gunbar- rels the bird was stirred ever so slightly, the dog hunting fifteen yards away, puzzled and totally at loss, wheeled to a point on the instant and came quickly in and retrieved the bird. Even the ruffed grouse gets credit for the same thing in less measure, because she is very care- ful in her manner of approaching and leaving THE ‘‘QUAIL’’ 69 her nest, nearly always coming up on the wing and alighting almost in it, and when leaving making a flight as soon as she is fairly clear of her eggs. Rarely, indeed, does she walk to or from her treasures, so that she may leave no trail for her enemies to follow to her undoing. Of course in all these cases the bird’s scent is much less because of the thorough airing out which the feathers get in their hustling flight, but I much doubt any ability to withold their scent in either one of them. In the case of the Quails more often than not it is the fault of the shooter in his carelessness in marking or of the dog in his lack of nose than that the birds have ‘‘retained their scent.’? However, should this strange disappearance of the birds occur it is only a matter of waiting until they have begun to move about,—as they will in a very short time—in order to get good shooting at the scattered members of the bevy. Once the flock has been well broken up the single birds usually hug the ground very closely when the dog has found them. I have almost caught one in my hand thinking it a bird which I had just seen fall and which lay within six feet of it. 70 FEATHERED GAME THE BEETLEHEAD PLOVER. BLACK- BREASTED PLOVER. (Squatarola squatarola.) The Beetlehead! What visions of blue water, barren sandbars, seaweed-covered ledges, and lonely, wind-swept, desolate islands this name brings up to the shore gunner’s mind! What pictures of splendid birds flash-. ing over the water or scaling down in swift career to the sandy margins where the sea is ever breaking, and the wary visitors feeding, ready at a sign of danger to take wing and away. Cautious and vigilant to the last degree and very keen of sight, they are the most intelli- gent of their family and among those least often captured by the New England gunner in spite of their comparatively large numbers. Among the best known of the shorebird fam- ily is this large and strikingly appareled bird, called also (for, because of its wide dispersion this species is distinguished by many titles) the Black-breasted Plover, Whistling Field Plover, Ox-Eye, Swiss Plover, Bull Head and Chuckle- head, these last two from his somewhat heavy THE BEETLEHEAD PLOVER 71 and stocky head and neck, and not in the slur- ring manner in which these names are com- monly used. But whatever the name he is one that commands the hearty admiration of the sportsman, and well may the Beetlehead be appreciated, both in the lonely places where he dwells and at the table, for he is one of the finest of our shorebirds in the qualities which the marsh gunner prizes, as well as a sweet morsel for the epicure. They are principally seen on our shores dur- ing the migrations, coming in large flocks dur- ing the latter part of April and the first of May, northward bound to their breeding grounds, returning in smaller bunches from August through September and the first half of October, going as far south for winter quar- ters as the West Indies and sometimes even to Brazil. Their migratory flights mainly take place at night, the birds resting and feeding during the day. During the spring flights they are for a short time abundant on our coasts. Caring little for the muddy flats and even less for the marsh- lands, they feed along the rocky shores and bare sea beaches, dashing in upon each re- 72 FEATHERED GAME treating wave to seize the choice bits thrown up and stranded on the edges. They run nimbly and gracefully about in an eager scramble for their rations, searching seaweed and drift stuff for the myriad wrigglers found therein. Yet, let the gunner peep ever so care- fully over the edge of the bank where he lies hidden and each wary feeder becomes at once a motionless statue. Had he not seen their animation a moment before he might think he had come upon a wooden congregation of de- ecoys. While he is still they make no move- ment, but let him stir, either for nearer ap- proach or to draw back from view that he may get a better position, and the instant his head goes out of sight behind the long salt grass the flock noiselessly takes wing with easy, graceful flight, alighting some hundreds of yards away to feed comfortably until the dan- gerous admirer, with stealthy caution and much toilsome trudging through the shifting sand dunes once more approaches too near for safety, when the same performance again takes place. It makes little difference how the ap- proach is managed, the result is generally the same; the gunner peers cautiously at the spot “MAAOTd AVAHATLAAA THE BEETLEHEAD PLOVER 73 where a moment since the flock was busily feeding, and seeing them not, soon discovers them two hundred yards away, apparently just as ready to tease him as before. They seem less suspicious of a boat, however, and will sometimes permit a gunner to get within easy range in this way. The smaller flocks in the fall will decoy quite readily or come with eager questionings to the mimicry of their whistling note. By the middle of June they are nearly all on their breeding grounds, mostly in those ice- bound regions of the north, where the lonely wastes for a few brief months are warmed by the sun into a semblance of summer. Here are the homes of the myriads of birds whose pass- ing hosts spend a brief season in our land to feed and rest from their journeyings. Among these the Beetleheads are numbered, and in such solitudes their young families are reared and trained up to the strength needful for their long flights. A shallow hole scooped out in the sand and lined with dry grass and moss constitutes the home of this, the finest of the plover family; and the nest, when ready for the hatching, us- 74 FEATHERED GAME ually contains four drab or clay-colored eggs with dark brown splashes upon them. The nesting season begins about the first to the mid- dle of May, and by August, or even earlier, straggling birds have begun their wanderings, moving lazily and comfortably from place to place along-shore. Often parties of them lin- ger in our borders until fairly ‘‘warned out’’ by the frosts of approaching winter. These are more maritime than are the golden plovers, which mainly make their migrations overland. The Beetleheads seem to prefer the sea-coasts for their travels, it may be for safety, perhaps also for the certainty of abundant food. They are sometimes fairly numerous in- land during the fall months, making ‘‘short cuts,’’? maybe, in order to favor the younger travellers. Northern and eastern New Eng- land is not so well acquainted with this bird, the greater part of the flights, both spring and fall, passing us by in a direct course over the water between the southern cape of Nova Sco- tia and Cape Cod. Comparatively few of the migrant waders visit the coast line between these points. The few that do so are mostly birds which have bred within our borders or THE BEETLEHEAD PLOVER 75 passersby driven inshore by the southeast storms so eagerly looked for by the marsh- and bay-gunners of these waters. Thus, while we seldom get any shooting at shore-birds here be- fore the middle of August or the first of Sep- tember, our brother sportsmen of Massa- chusetts commonly have good sport on plover and curlew as early as the middle of July. The Beetleheads, as are the other ‘‘bay snipe’’ on Cape Cod, are mostly shot from blinds and over decoys set out on the sea beaches —the blind usually a pit in the sand with the gunner lying quietly hidden until the game has come in close. Large bags of the various kinds of plover and curlew are often made in this fashion, for as the compact flocks wheel over the ‘‘tolers’’ and turn to leave when they discover the cheat they give the most favorable oppor- tunity for the experienced bay-man to rake their ranks with deadly effect. They make a pretty picture as the flocks sweep rapidly past in close order, with clear and musical call, the sharply contrasted blacks and whites of their plumage alternately show- ing and being hidden by the swiftly moving wings as they career along, now slanting to 76 FEATHERED GAME the right, now veering to the left, now the jet black breasts, now the gray backs and the white spots on the rumps and tail coverts showing like foamy fleckings from the breakers over which they skim. To my mind this is the prince of all the plover tribe—the worthiest member of a noble family. Probably the Beetlehead is the fleetest of wing among the bay birds, the ‘‘golden’’ being the only one having the right to challenge his title. Many gunners confuse this bird with the golden plover, and indeed the two are much alike, yet in addition to the Beetlehead’s greater size there is one marked difference on which the species is founded and which makes the Beetle- head unmistakable in any plumage—he has a hind toe, small and rudimentary, ’tis true, but plainly showing in every one of the species. The ‘‘golden,’’ as is the case of all our other true plovers, lacks this. For his other mark- ings, in his full dress uniform—(we all want our pictures taken in our wedding clothes, and so, it is likely, does our beautiful visitor)— above the Beetlehead is colored with a mixture of black, dusky gray and white, the darker THE BEETLEHEAD PLOVER 77 shades prevailing in the centres and the white mostly on the tips and edges of the feathers. The upper tail coverts white with but little of the dark shading; forehead, crown and down the side of the neck snow white, as are also the linings of the wings, under tail coverts, tibiae and vent. The tail is barred with black and white. Sides of the head as far back as the eye, side of the neck, breast and remaining un- der parts, primaries, axillary plumes, bill, legs and feet are black. Male and female are marked alike though the lady may have brown- ish tones in the blacks. Comparatively few gunners are acquainted with him in this plum- age, knowing him better in his fall dress of mottled black and white, when the breast mark- ing is somewhat dingier and does not, as a rule, show the solid area of black, nor are any of the contrasts of color so marked, yet he may be recognized at once by his large size and the hind toe, the mark of the species. The bird at the right in the plate is in the plumage of the young of the year—the winter dress of the adult bird also, though the mature bird generally retains some trace of the black breast in the dusky markings below. In this 78 FEATHERED GAME plumage, (the ‘‘pale-belly,’’ as the shore gun- ner then calls the bird in distinction from the black-breast full dress) there is often a yel- lowish tinge on the feathers of the back which makes the resemblance to the golden plover still greater. The length of this species varies from eleven to twelve and one-half inches; the extent of wings from twenty-two to twenty-four inches. Weight from seven to nine ounces. THE AMERICAN GOLDEN PLOVER. (Charadrius dominicus.) The Golden Plover is somewhat smaller than the last species, is three-toed, is of slenderer figure and has a smaller and slimmer bill. His coloration is darker, and in the full breed- ing dress with the jet black breast is even less often seen in the United States than is his cousin, the beetlehead. As a rule he prefers the inland country to the seashore, and is es- pecially partial to barren and burnt ground. A piece of newly plowed land offers great at- tractions to the migrant flocks. In one place where the writer often shoots, on the borders THE AMERICAN GOLDEN PLOVER 79 of the marsh are many acres of hay fields. One season some twenty acres of this was turned over and the brown mold laid bare to the sun and rain. During all that fall not a passing flock of ‘‘Goldens’’ but would stop and make a call there. More were killed in that one season in that place than in the five together preceding it. When a flock arrived they would quarter. the ground, wheeling here and there in erratic flight, until satisfied that all was safe, then finding a suitable place would suddenly alight and scatter at once to feed. Their beautiful dark eyes are full and soft, of remarkable size and brilliancy for a shore bird. The head, like that of the last species, is large, and the forehead is equally bulging and prominent, rising at a sharp angle from the bill. The call is a mellow piping note, flute-like and clear, and while not so powerful as many an- other bay bird produces, has great carrying qualities and is heard much farther than would be thought. With a little practice the gunner may easily imitate it—a great assistance to- ward filling his game bag, for they decoy well and come readily to a skillful call. Altogether the Golden Plover is a fine bird from the bay 80 FEATHERED GAME gunner’s view point—easy, graceful and strong in flight, nimble and swift of foot—indeed, what plover is not? They arrive in New England rather later in the spring than do the beetleheads, and re- turn to warm latitudes earlier. They nest in the Arctic regions, as do most of the shore birds, which gives us very little opportunity for observing their breeding habits. The winter months are passed in the Southern States and beyond to the southward. Many are found at this season on the grassy plains which make the cattle ranges of Texas and northern Mexico, and some even go to the extreme southern part of South America, so that their range is a wide one. The family is represented in Europe and Asia, also, the Old World bird varying but lit- tle from our own. Only an expert could dis- tinguish one from the other, and he not always. Most writers claim that this bird is much more common in New England than is the bee- tlehead. While this may be so, my own ex- perience has been to the contrary, and I think that most gunners on the coast of Maine will take my view of it. I think I have seen in one great flock during the spring flight more GOLDEN PLOVER. THE AMERICAN GOLDEN PLOVER 81 beetleheads than I have seen of Goldens in all my life. The Golden Plover feeds in the fields and highland pastures, haunting much the same ground as the upland plover, living upon slugs, beetles, earthworms and grasshoppers, nor passing by the sweet berries of the fields. In the West they tell us stories of these birds follow- ing the plow when the farmer turns up the soil of the prairies, and of their coming so close that the ploughman knocks them over with his whip as they curl and wheel about his head. This sounds like a—well, a ‘‘fairy tale,’’ to the eastern gunner, at any rate most of our sports- men are satisfied to hunt Golden Plovers with a hard-hitting, close-shooting shotgun. During the migration fair shooting is some- times to be had at Goldens in our island fields, when the gunner, putting out decoys and be- ing well hidden, calls the passing flocks. They rarely refuse to come to these false friends, not once only but even returning for the sec- ond discharge, unwilling to desert a comrade in distress. Of course no such bags are made here as in their western ranges. If the sports- man comes suddenly upon a single bird it will 82 FEATHERED GAME sometimes seem to be confused and may only run a short distance, when if it thinks itself unobserved it will crouch in the grass and re- main motionless until the gunner either has forced it to fly or has passed on. The bird in its spring plumage is marked as follows: forehead and a stripe over the eyes white; upper parts generally brownish black, speckled with yellow and white, these lighter spots mostly on the tips and edges of the feath- ers. The tail grayish brown with black bars. Below, the throat and breast a brownish black, growing lighter toward the lower parts; axillars and linings of wings dusky or ashy; feet and legs black. Such a bird rarely falls to the New England gunner as this is his summer plumage. As we see him in the fall the under parts are ashy gray, faintly and irregularly splashed with dark brown or black; top of the head yellow with dusky lines; stripe over the eye grayish; for the rest much as in the spring plumage. The females are marked like the males save that the black breast has taken on a brownish hue. Have seen a few adult birds wearing the breeding dress into the fall and winter months. THE KILDEER PLOVER 83 The Golden Plover is about ten and one-half inches long, and in wing spread about twenty- two inches. Weight from five and one-half to six ounces. It may be needless to add that the bird is a delicate morsel for the table. THE KILDEER PLOVER. ‘KILDER.”’’ (Oxyechus vociferus.) The chief of the small family of ‘‘ring plovers;’’ the largest and most beautiful of these birds in our territory. He has named himself and we have taken him at his word, “Kildeer! Kildeer!’’