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THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN’S LIBRARY

EDITED BY
CASPAR WHITNEY

UPLAND GAME BIRDS

oa

‘S
ads

BY

EDWYN SANDYS

AND

Eos. VAN DYKE

WELUSTRATED BY EL, A. FUERTES, A. BD. FROST.
Ju iO) NUOGEND, AND 6. LeBOLLE

New Work

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., L1p.

1904

Adi rights reserved Vz “ANSE! ;
{is AOF AAG

COPYRIGHT, 1902,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1902. Reprinted
October, 1904.

Norwood Jpress
J.S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

UPLAND GAME

By Epwyn SANDYS

THE PARTRIDGE FAMILY

PAGE

THE QUAIL . - : : A 5 : I
The Shooting of the om : : ° : . 30
Near the End of the Season . ~ 3 : : <9, OH!
The Enemies of the Quail : : : . : ~ | 69

A Day over Dogs . : 5 A 4 ° ‘ 5 373
The Florida Bob-white . : . ° . : ~ 85
The Texan Bob-white . : : ° “ : OF,
The Masked Bob-white . : : A ° : - 89
THE PARTRIDGES . . : : . . . : >) OF
The Mountain Partridge . - ° : . ° 5 GCL
The Plumed Partridge. ° : ° . : a 2.93
The San Pedro Partridge : : ° . : - Of
The Scaled Partridge . : 2 ; ; Aerie).

The Chestnut-bellied Scaled rare : ° ° = 96
The California Partridge . : : . : . =g0
The Valley Partridge. : : : : ° a eke)
Gambel’s Partridge . - - ° : ° 5 7) 10%
The Massena Partridge . : : é ‘ 5 2, FO4

THE GROUSE FAMILY

The Ruffed Grouse : : ‘ : : . “ apo els)
Some Glimpses of Grousing . : : ; A . e182

vi Contents

PAGE
Sabine’s Grouse. : ; : ; a - 5 e.g
The Canadian Ruffed Grouse . : : : A C rAd
The Gray Ruffed Grouse : : : 5 : : - 146
The Dusky Grouse : : : : : : : a Ihe
The Sooty Grouse . : : : . : - : P52
Richardson’s Grouse. : 5 ; : : : 2 15S
The Canada Grouse : - : : : : : . 2153
Franklin’s Grouse . : : 5 : : : : = L506
The Prairie-Hen . 5 : ° 5 : : : aehSG
A Match at Chickens. 5 : : 2 ; : Bee 717,
The Heath-Hen . : - ° . : : : f192
The Lesser Prairie-Hen . 5 : : . : : 5, HOR
Attwater’s Prairie-Hen . : : : : : - a 108)
The Sharp-tailed Grouse 5 : : : : LOS
The Columbian Sharp-tailed Grouse ; : : : Gy
The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse. ; : : : - 195
The Sage-Grouse . 5 : : 5 : 5 5 5 AO

THE PTARMIGAN FAMILY

The Willow Ptarmigan . : : : : ; ° 2) 220
A Try for Ptarmigan. : : : : 5 : yes)
Allen’s Ptarmigan . : ° : 2 : : ‘ - 240
The Rock Ptarmigan. : 5 , : : - =) 2A
Reinhardt’s Ptarmigan . 5 A A : : 4 5 Uli
Welch’s Ptarmigan : : 5 5 : : 3 = 242
The White-tailed Ptarmigan . ; ; : ‘ ‘ a E2A2
Other Ptarmigan . : : é : 5 : ; omezAy,

THE SURKEY HAMIEY

The Wild Turkey . : : : ; : : : « 248
The Florida Wild Turkey : : : ‘ : 298

Contents

Elliot’s Rio Grande Turkey

The Mexican Turkey

THE WOODCOCK

The American Woodcock

PLOVER

Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover

The Golden Plover

A Golden Opportunity . : p

Foreign Game

The Whooping Crane
The Sand-hill Crane

THE MOURNING DOVE

The Mourning Dove

tHE QUAIL, AND THE GROUSE OF fHE

FOREIGN GAME

THE CRANES

PACIFIC COAST

By T. S. Van DYKE

The Valley-Quail of California

The Mountain-Quail
Gambel’s Partridge.
The Ruffed Grouse
The Dusky Grouse

The Quail of the Desert

345

353
359

367

BAT,
386
394
403
410

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cist Or TLE USTeATIONS

THE SUPREME MOMENT

THE NATIONAL GAME-BIRD (Bob-white)

A DESERT RUNNER (Gambel’s Partridge)

THE RUFFED GROUSE STRUTTING

THE PRAIRIE CHICKEN (Pinnated Grouse) .
THE KING OF WILD BirbDs . 5 °

A WoovDLaND HERMIT (The Woodcock)

THE GAME-BIRD OF THE UNIVERSE (The Plover)

CALIFORNIA MOUNTAIN-QUAIL . 5 °

frontispiece

FACING PAGE

68

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UPLAND GAME

By EDwYN SANDYS

UPLAND GAME

(ite yea Rl RIDGE (FP AMIEY

Ciass AvES— Order Gallinz (gallinaceous birds—scratching on
the ground like domestic fowl—also called Rasores, from the
Latin “rasor,” a scraper): having fowl-like feet.

Family Tetraonide — Grouse, partridges, quails, etc. Sub-families
— Odontophorine (American partridges) and 7etraonine (grouse
and ptarmigan).

Genus Coline, which includes (1) the Bob White, C. wirginianus ;
(2) Texas Bob White, C. v. fevanus; (3) Florida Bob White,
C. v. floridanus ; (4) Masked Bob White, C. r¢dgway7.

Family Type— Body short, rounded, giving a plump appearance ;
feathers of crown slightly rounded and erectile, but not forming
a true crest. Tail about three-fifths length of wing. Flight
vigorous, whirring. Numbers 1, 2, and 3 much alike, sexes also
showing close resemblance, except in color of throats and super-
ciliary stripes. Incolor C. r¢dgway7 differs broadly from others.
C. virginianus — total length, about 9} inches ; wing, 4}; tail, 23;
tarsus, 14; bill, 3. C. v. floridanus — total length, about 73
inches; wing, 43; tail, 23; tarsus, 13; bill, 34. C. wv. fevanus —
total length, about 9 inches; wing, 44; tail, 2}; tarsus, 11;
bill, 4. C. r2d@gway¢ — total length, about 8} inches; wing, 4};
tail, 2; tarsus, 14; bill, 3.

THE QUAIL

Despite the leagues of virgin paper and gallons
of ink which have been wedded to produce the
story and the glory of the shooting of the Ameri-

B I

2 The Partridge Family

can “quail,” the interesting fact remains— there’s
no such bird.

If at the time of this writing there be true quail
alive and free in the United States of America,
either the birds or their immediate ancestors have
been imported. The quail of the Bible story, the
heaven-sent meat to the famished, was a true
quail, but the bird is not a native of this country.
And, in passing, it may not be out of place to
remark that latter-day scientific knowledge only
sustains, as 1t does in so many other instances,
the absolute truth of the ancient record. Under
conditions likely to prevail at a certain season of
any year, great flocks of migrating quail not only
might, but probably would, act as did their ances-
tors in days of old.

Nor is such a reference out of place in a sports-
man’s book. A true sportsman must be a true
gentleman, and a true gentleman surely will not
forget his Host while enjoying to the full the
feast of good things and the glorious beauty of
the place of entertainment provided for him. We
of the generous craft, whose very name binds us
to honorable deed and fair speech,— we who by
virtue of that craft get so near to what is fairest
and cleanest of earth, — shall we forget?

Some years ago an earnest but misguided at-
tempt was made to introduce a true quail —the
migratory variety. Sportsmen of different parts

The Quail 3

of the country heard of the possibility of adding
to our list of upland game, and money for the
purpose was speedily forthcoming. It was the
idea that the migratory quail could be brought
here in sufficient numbers to establish the species.
The original importations were released at vari-
ous points in the Northern states and Canada
early in spring, the promoters of the venture
believing the birds would breed in the strange
covers, and that their produce, at least, would
establish their hereditary instinct by moving
southward at the approach of cold weather and
returning to their birthplaces the spring following.

Theoretically, this to the average sportsman
appeared a simple proposition, but the more sci-
entific minority were, to say the least, sceptical.
All, however, were more or less interested and
curious concerning the expected northern migra-
tion the following spring. When the season had
swung round, tidings of the new game were
eagerly awaited. - The waiting proved a trifle
over-long; indeed, it is extremely likely that the
long-looked-for migrants, if ever they took to
flight, forgot to turn about.

The fate of these birds is_ problematical.
Turned loose at random as too many of them
were, amid strange cover, food, and surroundings,
and exposed to attack by various unfamiliar foes,
perhaps the majority of them perished not far

4 The Partridge Family

from where they were released. The first severe
weather may have destroyed the remainder; but if
a few drifted southward in an attempt to reach
their native land, the final long flight over sea was
assuredly a feat far beyond their limited powers.
The loss of these birds was no serious matter.
Small, fast-running, lacking all the better quali-
ties of their American namesakes, the migratory
quail would at the best have been a very question-
able addition to our list of game birds. Those
who tried good dogs on them while the opportu-
nity lasted, appeared to think that the famished
Israelite of old did not eat quite enough.

Of the birds popularly known as “quail” in dif-
ferent parts of this country, scientists have recog-
nized no less than thirteen varieties, some of
which they have agreed to term “ Bob Whites,”
while the others are “ partridges.” With the name
Bob White, which was suggested by the well-
known and musical call of the male bird, sports-
men need not quarrel—“A rose by any other
name —” etc. The birds classified as Bob Whites
include Colinus virginianus, the quail of sport-
ing lore; Cohnus virginianus floridanus, the
Florida variety; C. v. texanus, of Texas and
Mexico; and C. rzdgwayz, the masked Bob White
of southern Arizona and Mexico.

The partridges comprise a group in which are
Oreortyx pictus, the mountain partridge of Calli-

The Quail 5

fornia, Oregon, and Washington, which has been
introduced into Vancouver Island; O. fp. plumz-
ferus, of California, Oregon, and Nevada; O. £.
conjinzs, the San Pedro partridge of Lower Cali-
fornia; Callipepla squamata, the scaled partridge
of western Texas, New Mexico, southern Ari-
zona, and valley of Mexico; C. s. castaneigastra,
the chestnut-bellied scaled partridge of the lower
Rio Grande valley, Texas, and northeastern
Mexico; Lophortyx californicus, of the Califor-
nia coast, and introduced into Oregon, Washing-
ton, and British Columbia; Z. c. vallicola, of
California, Oregon, and Nevada; ZL. gaméeli, of
southern Utah, Nevada, northwestern Mexico,
western Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Cali-
fornia; and Crytonyx montezuma, the Massena
partridge of western Texas, New Mexico, Ari-
zona, and the table-lands of Mexico.

All of these are beautiful, the oddest appearing
being the curiously marked Massena partridge,
with the plumage of which Nature appears to
have worked when ina playful mood, so strangely
are the almost startling markings arranged.

The Bob White has been placed at the head
of the list for reasons good. Not one of his crested
or more gayly marked relatives, near or remote,
can approach him in sporting qualifications. He
truly is the king of his race, and not alone that,
for in the opinion of hosts of enthusiastic sports-

6 The Partridge Family

men he is the best bird that flies. Judged from
the sportsman’s point of view, no other bird ap-
pears to so exactly meet all requirements. Swift
and small, he offers a sufficiently difficult mark to
thoroughly test one’s skill; prolific to an aston-
ishing degree, he may be depended upon to hold
his own under any reasonable conditions; a
haunter of all sorts of ground, his pursuit ever
presents the wearing charm of infinite variety;
hardy and strong, he thrives under climatic con-
ditions which few other game birds can endure;
his limited wanderings seldom take him far from
his native farm; he is there when wanted, and
when secured his small, plump body is worthy a
chef's supreme effort and a gourmand’s unstinted
praise. Add to all this his habit of lying well
before dogs, and. what more could sportsman
true desire —especially when it is remembered
that this prize package of golden qualities
comes to us in a beautiful cover —for the plu-
mage is what may be termed both pleasing and
appropriate.

The Bob White is a widely distributed species,
being found more or less abundant throughout
the eastern United States from Maine to Florida.
In the western portion of the province of On-
tario it is plentiful, while west of the Missis-
sippi its range extends to South Dakota, Missouri,
and eastern Texas. It has also been introduced

The Quail 7

into New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Cali-
fornia, Oregon, Washington, and British Colum-
bia. Throughout all this vast expanse of country
it thrives and fulfils its fourfold mission, as
martyr to the sporting spirit, food to the epi-
cure and the ailing, a joy to the lover of nature,
and as an extremely valuable assistant to the
agriculturist. The quail truly is a bird of the
farm, the camp-follower of the strong army of
agriculture which is so steadily conquering the
wild’acres of the West. As the grain’ belt
broadens, so does the range of Bob White
extend. Himself no ploughman, yet he conscien-
tiously follows the plough. He is the gleaner,
who never reaps, who guards the growing crops,
who glories over a bounteous yield, yet is
content to watch and wait for those lost grains
which fall to him by right. Shrewd foe to the
foes of the farm, he hunts amid the crowding
stems for skulking insect peril; and what he and
his swarming tribe fail to detect, can work but
small harm. His food consists of “mast,” zc.
small acorns, beechnuts; grain of various kinds,
notably buckwheat, corn, and wheat, millet, and a
variety of small seeds, some of these being of the
most troublesome weeds. These, of course, are
the autumn and winter foods; at other seasons
the diet is chiefly insectivorous, including ants and
their larvz, potato beetles, chinch bugs, cotton

8 The Partridge Family

worms, grasshoppers, crickets, the cutworm moth,
and probably a few others which the farmer is
glad to dispense with. In the destruction of
these the quail performs a service the value of
which, while it cannot be determined, unques-
tionably is great. Apropos of this point: lest
some of the well-meaning but frequently mis-
guided bird lovers should arise in their zealous
misunderstanding of actual conditions and ex-
claim, “ Then, if quail do this, they should not
be shot!” it must be borne in mind that the
entire protection of the quail would not mean a
speedy increase of useful workers and a corre-
sponding decrease of insect pests. The fact is,
that quail will not stand overcrowding. If they
did, it would be a simple matter to closely pre-
serve a few thousand acres until the tract became
literally alive with the birds. Experience has
taught that a certain number of acres will carry
only a certain number of quail. During the mat-
ing season, the males, like all gallinaceous birds,
are extremely pugnacious, and the mated male
will tolerate no possible near-by rival. Hence, too
many birds would surely mean trouble, war, and
confusion, and a consequent interruption of most
important business. It is quite possible, too,
that overcrowding would, as it does in the case of
closely preserved grouse, cause disease.’ In any

1England is suffering this season (1901) a considerable loss of its
birds from this very cause. — EDITOR.

The Quail 9

event the quail appear to settle the matter in a
satisfactory way by scattering over the country,
so that each brood may enjoy a range of its own.

The love-making of the quail is carried on with
a dash and spirit worthy of so gamey a bird.
Every resident of a quail country knows and
loves the clear, sweet, often defiant whistle of
“ Bob White — Bob-bob — White!” which, in the
Northeast, during May, is flung from fence to
stump, to and fro across sun-kissed open and
flowered mead. Amid the perfumed breath of
new-waked blooms and tender growing things;
when the soft air is a-tremble with glad bird
voices, which plead for love from swaying frond,
sweet upper air, and bosky dell, then brave,
brown Bob feels the witchery of the season and
boldly enters Love’s fateful lists. It isa merry tour-
ney, for small knights are bold, and fair maids some-
what coy. Suitors are many, sometimes too many,
and the prizes must be fairly won. At first Bob
is more of the sighing lover, — the minstrel ’neath
his lady’s bower, —and he contents himself with
sending random love-notes by the mischievous
breeze. From across his favorite field comes an
echo of his ringing call — the voice of some ambi-
tious rival! At once heis all attention. Does he
hear aright? Can it be that insignificant little
bird with which he shared quarters under the
snow-laden brush-heap through half of the win-

10 The Partridge Family

ter just past? He will see to it, and at once!
“ Bob — White! Bob-bob — White — Bob — Whi-
ite!!” Each cry is louder and sharper than
its predecessor, the last “ Whi-ite” being shaken
with anger. And ever, like an echo, comes the
reply, for the rival is as audacious and passionate
as our doughty hero, and quite as ready to break
a lance when bright eyes are willing to behold
brave deeds. From the long-distance hurling of
defiances the dispute gradually progresses to a
tempestuous interchange of musical incivilities
at short range. The pygmy warriors are comi-
cally in earnest. Each puffs himself up and
struts about as though fairly bursting with rage,
and there is much raising of crests, cocking of
heads, and short racings this way and that. One
runs to the top of an old ant-hill, and from this
coign of vantage fairly shouts his desire for deadly
combat; the other springs upon a fallen log and
makes the air ring with requests for gore. Fi-
nally, they both reach an open space and catch
sight of each other. Then there is a funny little
fight, but a furious one while it lasts. They fight
after the manner of small game chickens, but the
action is much faster, and there is considerable
savage biting and tenacious hanging-on by the
short, strong bills. Feathers are pulled and
broken, heads are pecked until a trace of blood
appears, there is much cuffing by whirring wings

The Quail II

and striking by small feet, until one yields and
slips away discomfited.

To the victor belongs the spoils; and while the
panting hero is endeavoring to shout his triumph,
forth from her secret hiding-place demurely steps
the cause of all the trouble, the woman in the
case, the trim, brown-throated hen. In all prob-
ability she has not cared a continental about
either warrior. As the racing men put it, her
business is to “pick a winner,” and in so doing
she merely plays her part in Nature’s wonderful
plan according to which the fittest survive for the
perpetuation of the race. Some very pretty love-
making follows, for my lady holds herself not too
cheaply. Sir Knight, though fresh from victory
bravely won, must still strut and coax and plead
—nay! perchance fight it all over again with
some new rival before she will bestow the favor
he craves. At last she yields, and to her credit
be it said that once mated, she is a model wife.
It is questionable if her lord is equally irreproach-
able. Among well-informed sportsmen there is a
belief, to which the writer inclines, that the quail
is, at least to a certain extent, polygamous. It is
no uncommon thing to find nests containing
thirty or more eggs, which must have been depos-
ited by more than one hen. The fact of these
eggs hatching proves a mated hen, and not an
unmated wanderer laying as domestic fowl do,

12 The Partridge Family

while the pugnacity of the cock forbids the theory
of two pairs entering upon a joint housekeeping.
It is therefore only reasonable to suppose that in
some instances, at least, a single cock mates with
two hens. Presumably, the young from such a
nest would be cared for by the two hens. Be that
as it may, the writer has often flushed broods of
thirty-odd half-grown young which were accom-
panied by three mature birds, one cock and two
hens, while other broods, almost if not quite as
strong, would be with one cock and hen. Some
of the confusion regarding this point has no doubt
been caused by the fact of the hen frequently
hatching two broods in a single season. In such
cases the first brood is carefully cared for by the
male, while his mate is brooding the second lot of
eggs. When these are hatched the two broods
unite, which accounts for the unusually large
young bevies frequently described by sportsmen.
The man who only studies the quail along the
rib of a breech-loader knows the bird merely dur-
ing the shooting season. To him a big bevy is
a big bevy and nothing more, and he doesn’t
bother himself over the fact that some of his birds
are a bit smaller and less developed than others.
Slight differences which to a trained observer at
once betray the two broods, are lost to the man
who shoots for love of killing, and whose sole
desire is for birds big enough to show his

The Quail 13

friends and plentiful enough to keep his gun
barrels hot.

The nest of the quail is built upon the ground,
and usually it is well concealed. Favorite sites
for it include the long growth about a fence or
bush, an angle in the roots of an old stump ora
thick tuft in a pasture. It may be under a log
or the edge of a dry ditch, in the orchard or the
hay-field, or even in some snug corner about a
barn or outbuilding; wherever it be, its discov-
ery is apt to be accidental. If in a hay-field, it
may be arched over with interwoven grasses and
have an entrance at one side. Occasionally this
entrance is concealed by a short, roughly con-
structed, tunnel-like approach.

The nest isa puzzle in its way. At first glance
one sees a Startling array of snow-white, highly
polished eggs, rather larger than the size of the
bird would lead one to expect, and shaped like so
many small peg-tops. The treasure house may
have been located after a long search, but when
found, you wonder how you failed to at once
detect it. Then you marvel at the arrangement
of the eggs, which are invariably closely packed,
with the pointed ends downward. If you were
foolish enough to take them out, the odds would
be ten to one against your being able to put them
back again, yet the wise little hen did it without
hands or your boasted knowledge. Apropos of

14 The Partridge Family

this, the reader is hereby solemnly warned against
touching the eggs or meddling in any way with
the nest. Strange as it may appear, the hen can
tell if her home has been invaded, and an imme-
diate desertion of it is liable to follow, even though
the eggs be almost hatched. When a nest has
been accidentally disturbed, the eggs had better be
taken than suffered to spoil. They are excellent
eating, but a wiser disposition would be to place
them under a bantam hen and have her raise the
brood. The period of incubation is about twenty-
four days; and providing the foster-mother be made
to perform her duties within a suitable enclosure,
the young may be raised without any great trouble.
Only a close pen or a wire netting of small mesh
will confine the active things until they have
become sufficiently tame to be trusted.

My first attempt at rearing young quail ended
in an awful tragedy. Five fresh eggs had been
found and were placed under a reliable game ban-
tam. A suitable netting was erected about the
nest, and in due time five young quail made their
appearance. They were transferred to a net-
guarded grass run which included two large ant-
hills. In a week the youngsters had become
quite tame, whereupon a misguided but well-
meaning person concluded to do a kindly act —
in other words, meddle —and turned them loose.
The bantam mother led them to the poultry

The Quail 15

yard, which was presided over by a mighty light
brahma cock. Now the bantam was game, and
when the larger hens, who had forgotten her dur-
ing the enforced absence, gave her stony stares,
or, it may be, questioned the strict legitimacy of
her curious progeny, she declared war. While
she was battling against heavy odds, the fool
brahma cock spied the tiny quail, which he calmly
devoured. As the wee legs of the last one were
disappearing, a slightly delayed but impetuous
brickbat hit the brahma. He literally met his
end gamely, but as he happened to be worth
twenty-five dollars, a certain youthful naturalist
took his meals standing up and slept on his
stomach for at least one week. This sad experi-
ence, however, need not deter others from rearing
quail. In suitable runs the birds will breed and
prove most interesting pets.

In the natural state the male bird takes an
occasional turn at covering the eggs. Young
quail are extraordinarily active, being able to
run as soon as they escape from the shell. They
are exceedingly pretty, the upper parts a rich chest-
nut with buff below, the heads chestnut and buff
with a dark line behind the eye, another on the
forehead, and a spot at the angle of the mouth.
When once the young have left the nest they are
led by the parents to the best feeding-ground, and
the spot of their birth knows them no more.

16 The Partridge Family

Both cock and hen are watchful guardians, and
the first note of alarm from one or the other sends
the young to cover with an amazing celerity.
Either parent will simulate lameness to draw an
intruder away from the skulking chicks.

A brood of young quail suddenly come upon
in an open space will disappear as though the
ground had swallowed them. They have a mar-
vellous knack of diving under short grass and tiny
leaves, and, once hidden, they will remain motion-
less until actually trodden upon. In anything like
cover, a search for them would resemble the quest
of the proverbial needle, while even upon almost
bare ground only the sharpest eyes can locate
them. Many writers have claimed that a chick
will turn upon its back and cover itself with a
leaf which it holds in position by its feet. This
is, to say the least, extremely doubtful, especially
as regards the holding of the leaf in any position
by either feet or bill. A chick, in its rapid dart
to cover, might turn upon its side, or even upon
its back, under a leaf. In its anxiety to avoid any
telltale movement, it might remain and be found
in the awkward position, but to state that it delib-
erately seizes the leaf, turns over, and holds the
screen in position, is going a bit too far. What
it actually does, in all probability amounts to
nothing more than an instinctive dive into the
nearest cover, a motionless pause, and a trust to

The Quail 17

coloration and the quail Providence. If those
who may stumble upon a brood of quail will take
a sportsman-naturalist’s advice, they will promptly
back away for a few yards, sit down, and remain
silently watchful. No search should be attempted,
for the searcher is more likely to trample the life
out of the youngsters than to catch one. But if
he hide in patience, he may see the old hen return,
mark her cautiously stealing to the spot, and hear
her low musical twitter which tells that the peril
has passed. Then from the scant tuft here, from
the drooping leaf yonder, apparently from the bare
ground over which his eyes have roved a dozen
times, will arise active balls of pretty down until
the spot appears to swarm with them. And the
devoted mother will whisper soft greetings to each,
and in some mysterious manner will make the
correct count, and then with nervous care shep-
herd them forward to where there is safer cover.
And they will troop after her in perfect confi-
dence, to resume their bug-hunting and botanical
researches as though nothing important had
transpired.

Young quail are busy foragers, and they grow
rapidly. Within a few days after leaving the nest
they are capable of a flight of several yards. A
brood flushed by a dog will buzz up like so many
overgrown grasshoppers, fly a short distance, then
dive into cover ina comical imitation of the tactics

18 The Partridge Family

of their seniors. As insect catchers they are un-
rivalled, their keen eyes and tireless little legs
being a most efficient equipment even for a sus-
tained chase. The parents scratch for them and
call them to some dainty after the manner of ban-
tam fowls, and the shrewd chicks speedily grasp
the idea and set to work for themselves. A tiny
quail scratching in a dusty spot is a most amus-
ing sight. The wee legs twinkle through the
various movements, at a rate which the eye can
scarcely follow, and the sturdy feet kick the dust
for inches around. When a prey is uncovered it
is pounced upon with amazing speed and accu-
racy, while a flying insect may call forth an elec-
tric leap and a clean catch a foot or more above
the ground. As the season advances grain, seeds
of various weeds, berries, wild grapes, and mast
are added to the menu, in which insects still
remain prominent. After the wheat has been
cut the broad stubbles become favorite resorts,
especially when they are crowded with ragweed.
Patches of standing corn now furnish attractive
shelter and the suitable dusting-places so neces-
sary to gallinaceous birds. Quail, as a rule, go
to feed early in the morning and again about mid-
afternoon, lying up during the interval in some
cosey nook which offers facilities for the dust-bath
and a quiet siesta. Not infrequently the feeding- _
ground is a considerable distance from the mid-

The Quail 19

day shelter, in which case the bevy may fly to and
fro, instead of going afoot. When walking to
their feeding-ground quail almost invariably stick
close to whatever cover there may be, following
a weed-bordered fence, a line of thicket, or some
convenient furrow. This habit doubtless is a pre-
caution against sudden attacks by hawks. Until
the young birds are about two-thirds grown, the
plumage is pale and washy-looking, presenting a
mottled effect very unlike the richer coloration
of the adults. The young are then termed by
sportsmen “cheepers,” or “squeakers,” owing to
the fact that when flushed they utter a hurried
chirrup. At this stage they, of course, are unfit
for shooting and only an out and out “ potter”
would draw trigger on them. Even after mid-
October these immature broods are constantly
met with, and frequently they are a nuisance in
thick cover, where it is impossible to distinguish
them from prime specimens. Dogs will stanchly
point them, and about all a sportsman can do
when he finds himself knocking down such unde-
sirable wretches, is to call off his canine and try
a new beat. Asa rule these “squeakers” are a
second brood, and the older lot may be somewhere
close by. This point is well worth remembering.
When once beyond the squeaker stage and wear-
ing the garb of their parents, the young, while
perhaps rather small, are fit quarry for any man.

20 The Partridge Family

Still, they lack the headlong dash of the old bird,
and taken as they flush are comparatively easy
marks. Your true sportsman does not enthuse
over them. What he wants to hear is that pecul-
iar hollow “ Burr-r-r!” which marks the rising of
a strong, fully developed bird. To the trained ear
this sound is genuine music, and no veteran will
mistake it for the less pronounced whirring of a
younger wing, no matter how large the owner of
that wing may appear to be. Trained eyes, too,
can almost invariably detect the sex of the flushed
bird. To the ordinary observer, the hen quail,
with the exception of the stripe over the eye and
the throat, is very like the male, but to the trained
eye there is a marked difference. The general
tone of the hen is brown, that of the male bluish
gray. The difference is slight, but it is there,
and a master of quail-shooting can detect it even
in the brief glimpse of a fast bird going straight-
away — of course in the open.

The adult male is marked as follows: fore-
head, stripe over the eye and throat, white; top
of head, a mixture of chestnut and black; sides of
neck, prettily marked with chestnut, black, and
white (in many specimens the conspicuous stripe
over the eye is tinged with buff); general tone of
the back and wings, a mixture of chestnut, yellow-
ish brown, and gray blotched on middle of the
back with black; a black mark surrounds the

The Quail a1

white of the throat. Breast and lower parts, buffy
white, crossed with narrow wavy lines of black.
Flank feathers, chestnut barred with black and
edged with white; tail, bluish gray; under tail-
coverts, chestnut marked with black. Bill, black ;
legs and feet, yellowish brown. Roughly speak-
ing, the female is buff where the male is white;
otherwise the markings are so similar that an un-
scientific eye would detect no difference. In
sportsmen’s parlance, — “white throat — cock;
buff throat—hen.” Cocks having the throat
more or less buff are occasionally seen. In im-
mature specimens the throat marks usually are a
dirty gray. A full-grown quail is about nine and
and one-half inches long. In the writer’s opinion
the largest and heaviest bird he has handled was
afemale. The size and markings vary considera-
bly in different parts of the country. The finest
birds seen by the writer were in western Ontario
and Pennsylvania. The Florida birds are smaller
and darker in color. Pennsylvania sportsmen
frequently speak of what they term “ willow-legged
quail,” thereby meaning a bird with a greenish-
tinted leg and which they claim is a trifle larger
and finer than the ordinary type. Of a number
of birds examined, none showed this peculiarity,
all closely resembling the best Ontario specimens.
The most familiar call is, of course, the sweet
“ Bob-white” of the male during the spring and

22 The Partridge Family

early summer, which in different sections is also
translated into “ More wet —no more wet,” “ More
wheat — no more wheat,” and “ Buck-wheat — no
buck-wheat.” The last is a close imitation and
has a tinge of the dry humor of the typical farmer,
who knows how fond the bird is of that useful
grain. The rallying call, after a bevy has been
scattered, is loud and vibrant with tender anxiety.
A well-known authority puts it thus — Quoz-z-hee,
guot-t-hee; others twist it into “ Where-are-you?
Where-are-you?” The writer’s ear may be at fault,
but to him it sounds very like Ka-loz-hee, Ka-lot-
hee, especially when the old hen is doing the
calling. There are many variations of it too,
Whowl-kee representing a common one. It is
an open question if the cock utters this call,
although some accomplished sportsmen have
claimed that he does. The writer has been a
close observer of quail and would think nothing
of calling young birds almost to his feet, yet he
has never been able to trace this call to the old
male, that is, as a rallying call to the brood. He
is well aware that young males use it in replying
to the mother, but he has yet to see a male of
more than one season utter it. Apropos, if during
the mating season a good whistler will conceal
himself and reply to the Bob-whiting of some
amorous male, he can draw the bird across even a
broad field. The small fellow will reply louder

The Quail 23

and louder and will get madder and madder and
will draw nearer and nearer until he is perhaps
only a few yards distant and full of fight. Then
let the whistler utter a defiant “ Bob-white,” and
suddenly change to a low, tender Aa-/oz-hee and
note the effect upon Bob. In an instant he is a
fussing, fuming, irresponsible small devil, racing
here and there with dragging wings, and so ex-
cited that he can hardly sputter out his challenges.
A repetition of the a-loz-hee may bring him
booming on reckless wings almost into the
observer’s face. Now, if this Aa-loz-hee be not a
hen’s call, and a suggestion to him that his hen is
playing tricks with a stranger — “ what’s he fussin’
about?” The quail utters other sounds. While
feeding it may be heard to twitter in a low, satis-
fied sort of way. A winged bird running, or an un-
injured one running from under brush, preparatory
to taking wing, frequently voices a musical /ck-
tick-tick-a-voy. A bird closely chased by a hawk
emits a sharp cackling, expressive of extreme terror.
Quite frequently a bevy just before taking wing
passes round a low, purring note — presumably a
warning to spring all together. When the hen is
calling to scattered young, she sometimes varies
the cry to an abrupt Ko-ang, after which she re-
mains silent for some time. This the writer
believes to be a hint to the young to cease calling
— that the danger still threatens, and is prompted

24 The Partridge Family

by her catching a glimpse of dog or man. A
bevy travelling afoot keeps up what may be termed
a twittering conversation, and there is a low alarm
note, like a whispered imitation of the cry of a
hen when a hawk appears.

Toward the latter part of September, a spirit of
restlessness appears to disturb the earlier broods
which are then nearly fully grown. They shift
about their native farm, being found now in one
field, again in another. In a few days, in an
average season about the first of October, this
restlessness becomes more pronounced until it
almost assumes the nature of a partial migration
— if indeed it be not that in the proper sense of
the term. The bevies appear to drift across coun-
try, and for a week or so are very unsettled. This
may be a trace of some old-time migrating habit,
but that point had best be left to some purely
scientific court. Certain it is that the birds travel
sometimes for miles. It is this movement which
causes so many bevies to suddenly appear in the
gardens of villages, towns, and not infrequently
within the lawn enclosures of important cities.
Just why the birds travel is not readily explained.
They are not in quest of food, for they will leave
excellent ground only to finally locate, maybe
miles away, upon ground not one whit better,
while other quail will move into the vacated terri-
tory. It is a curious movement and a matter

The Quail 25

which even our shrewdest observers do not ap-
pear to thoroughly understand. All the writer
can say about it is that beyond question it takes
place ; that it does not seem to be an easy staging
toward suitable winter quarters, for the best of
ground will be passed by, but rather an uneasy,
haphazard drifting about the period of the turn-
ing of the leaf. The theory that the disturbance
by late harvesting operations, like corn-cutting,
starts the birds moving will not hold, for they
move from undisturbed territory the same as from
any other. The only solution seems to be that the
remote ancestors of the quail were migrants and
that the old-time instinct has not yet been entirely
eradicated. If we knew that the movement
always trended in the one direction, the solution
of the problem might be more easily attained, but
unfortunately the proof of the birds’ moving along
any defined course appears to be lacking. The
fact that these drifting birds seem to be in every
case full-grown rather strengthens the theory out-
lined. Nor is this theoretical migration to be
confounded with the shorter movement toward
cover as the cold weather asserts itself. This
latter is merely a quest for the warmest available
quarters, and is no more migration than is the
movement of a fowl which roosts during autumn
in an apple tree, but seeks the more comfortable
fowl-house when the pinch of winter comes.

26 The Partridge Family

Quail, when undisturbed, are very regular in
their habits, being in this respect not unlike
domestic poultry. Shortly after sunrise they are
busy seeking food, and after crops are well filled
they seek the lounging and dusting places, there
to rest and enjoy themselves until time for the
afternoon foraging. As dusk approaches they
move to the chosen sleeping place, and at this
hour there is apt to be considerable calling from
one to another. The “roost,” if that term may
be used, very frequently is in a mat of low cat-
briers, or thickly growing weeds. In such shel-
ter the birds squat upon the ground, usually in a
rough circle with heads pointing out. This, pre-
sumably, is a precautionary arrangement against
a night attack by some prowling foe. Under
ordinary conditions the bevy will return to the
same spot for many nights in succession. Proof
of this is furnished by the accumulation of
droppings, which after a time become quite con-
spicuous. The often advanced claim that quail
always roost upon the ground is not true. As a
rule they do, and in some sorts of country they
must, but it is no uncommon thing to find them
regularly roosting in such places as a mass of
wild grape-vines attached to a fence or tree, in
some thick, bushy tree, in an apple tree near the
poultry, sometimes in the fowl-house, barn, or
stable, on the lower rails of a weedy fence, on

The Quail 27

top of logs, and occasionally on the bare rails
of a fence. Only the belated sportsman, who has
blundered upon them while trying to climb a
fence in the dark, can rightly describe the thrill
caused by the unexpected and thunderous flush.
Speaking of noisy flight—a peculiarity of quail
lies in the fact that the characteristic resonant
“Burr-r-r!” of the startled bird is not invariably
heard when a single one, or a bevy, rises un-
alarmed. The writer repeatedly has seen whole
bevies flush with no more noise than might be
caused by an equal number of sparrows, and
single birds rising and flying toward a caller sel-
dom if ever make any noticeable whirring. Again,
when calling, he has seen birds silently rise and
fly within a few yards, then sheer off on noisy
wings as they caught sight of him. The same
thing is true of that thunder-winged fellow, the
ruffed grouse. It may be the noisy flush has a
purpose in an attempt to momentarily startle and
confuse an enemy.

The habits of the quail vary with the weather
and season. During windless, warm days, after
the first flush, they will scatter and lie like so
many stones. Should the day be very humid, or
if rain be falling, they may refuse to lie at all and
run like “quarter horses,” perhaps for hundreds
of yards, then flush wild, pitch, and again run
on. In bleak, windy weather they are apt to be

28 The Partridge Family

very wild, to refuse to lie to the best of dogs in
the open, and to whizz away in long flight to
the heavy timber. During a snow-storm, too, the
chances are in favor of their acting in a most
erratic manner. These are bad times for dog
and man, and to make a good bag is well-nigh
an impossibility. Under these conditions, too,
they are given to that exasperating trick, tree-
ing, after the first flush, and when quail take to
the trees the sportsman’s lot is not a happy one.
The best thing a man can do then is to leave
those birds for the day and seek another bevy;
for he will not, of course, pot them as they sit,
even should he be able to make them out, which
is no easy matter in tall timber.

A marked peculiarity attributed to the quail,
and one over which many able writers have dis-
agreed, is their alleged power of withholding
body-scent at their discretion. “Can quail with-
hold their scent?” has been the subject of many
an inky tourney. That they do voluntarily, or
involuntarily, temporarily withhold body-scent
has been claimed by many a veteran who has
seen dogs of unquestioned high class utterly fail
to locate birds where they have been marked
down. The writer has seen such things happen
—nay! he has even seena rare good dog actu-
ally step on a bird and never dream of its pres-
ence till it flushed under his belly, yet that did

The Quail 29

aot prove any mysterious power on the bird’s
part of controlling its scent. The fact was that
the quail in question had just completed what
might be termed an air bath—a cleansing rush
through pure air—it had pitched and squatted
where it struck without running at all, thus leav-
ing no foot-scent; it was badly scared and had
its plumage compressed about it as tightly as
possible, and all these things combined for the
moment prevented the spread of the telltale odor.
By squatting where it struck, the bird literally
covered its tracks, ze. it was over the spot
where its feet had touched. Had it run even a
few strides, the questing nose would surely have
found the trail. The explanation that a dog,
fresh from a point, may have his “nose so full of
scent” that he is unable to detect a faint trail, is
no explanation at all. Good dogs often point
newly pitched quail while in the act of retrieving
a bird just killed. A dog of the writer’s, while
holding a quail in his mouth with the wing
directly across his nostrils, once pulled up on an-
other bird which had not been in its hiding-place
more than a minute. Then, if ever, would his
nose have been “full of scent,” yet he was able to
pin the live bird, because in all probability it had
run to its hiding-place.

30 The Partridge Family

THE SHOOTING OF THE QUAIL

While “to teach the young idea how to shoot”
is not the exact purpose of this chapter, perhaps
a few remarks concerning the outfit and certain
“wrinkles” anent field-shooting may not be out
of place. So long as individual tastes differ there
will be variations of opinion concerning that most
important thing, — the gun. Many men prefer an
exceedingly ght arm, claiming, and this cor-
rectly enough, that a light, small gauge calls for
the greater skill, and, like the fragile, feather-
weight trout rod, is the only thing fit for the
hand of a master. That is all very well, but it
may be carried too far. During the early part
of the season, when birds are young and unedu-
cated, when there is cover everywhere and a bird
seldom flushes more than a yard or so from one’s
boot, almost any small gun will answer. At this
time, too, the weather is apt to be warm, under
which condition the reduction in weight of arm
and ammunition is a decided advantage. The
decrease in the killing range is then a matter of
small consequence, for the great majority of shots,
except second barrels, will be at thirty yards and
under. This may appear very close, but a few
actual measurements will verify the statement.
In point of fact, the average kills of a fairly quick
shot will be at a range of about twenty to twenty-

The Quail 31

five yards or less. At such a distance, the smallest
of guns should, in good hands, prove sufficiently
effective, but that is not the important point. If
a gun be of fourteen, sixteen, or twenty gauge, it
needs must be of first-class grade to be reliable
and safe to use. Hence, a man must have a
special gun for, say at a liberal estimate, the first
half of the season; and later on, after the birds
have become educated and the cover is not so
abundant, the shooting range is materially in-
creased, whereupon the small gun is at once at a
disadvantage. Worse than that, entirely owing
to lack of power, the use of it in skilled hands is
certain to mean a lot of wounded birds. Then,
again, the small gun is good only for close-rising
quail, woodcock, and snipe, which means that a
second, heavier gun must be kept for all-round
work. In this event, the change of arm is not
calculated to improve one’s shooting. Another
disadvantage of the smaller guns lies in the difh-
culty of procuring suitable ammunition in an
emergency. Of course, the resident of a large
city may readily buy shells of any size and load,
but quail-shooting is not a characteristic sport of
the streets of a large city. The best of it is
found where stores are few and rush orders not
a specialty; hence, an accident or a misdirected
package may mean the ruination of a hard-earned
holiday. Any mishap to the man using the odd-

32 The Partridge Family

sized gun may prove a genuine disaster, while the
man with the twelve-gauge may restock from any
country store, or, if in the field, borrow from his
comrade or any one he may meet. The reader
will readily understand the importance of these
points, and when it 1s remembered that the sole
advantage of the smaller gun lies in the trifling
reduction of weight, the choice becomes a simple
matter. I have tried arms by many makers and
of all practical sizes, and I unhesitatingly recom-
mend a twelve-gauge, by a first-class firm and of
weight, etc., to suit the individual. If the novice
decides to purchase the best obtainable he will
make no mistake, for a really fine gun, like a fine
watch, properly cared for, should last a lifetime.
It should, of course, be a hammerless ejector, the
safest and most efficient gun now available, and
if it weigh between seven and eight pounds it
will be the proper thing for ninety-nine out of
one hundred men. Equally, of course, the powder
should be of the smokeless brand, for the less
suspicion of smoke the better for the chances of
the second barrel, particularly in cover-shooting
and upon dark, humid days.

The costume is also worthy of attention. One
of the best consists of medium-weight, dead-grass
color duck for coat, vest, and pants, and duck or
felt hat, or a corduroy cap to match. The boots
should be of the recognized shooting pattern,

The Quail 33

waterproof if possible, but above all they should
fit. A man ona long tramp is like a horse; he
is only as good as his feet, and hardly too much
care can be exercised over the boots and socks.
All underwear should be of light, pure woollen
fabric, which will prevent chill after a wetting or
during a long ride. The handiest place for the
shells is an outside pocket, for if the coat be
properly made the weight of them will not inter-
fere with free action of the arms. Bags, belts,
and vest devices for carrying shells come under
the general head of infernal nuisances.

And now an extremely important question, —
the dog! So long as he be a free ranger, of good
nose, intelligent, and properly broken, he may be
either pointer or setter. Both are good, equally
good, taking the season through. By reason of
his coat the pointer is better for warm weather,
and he can travel on less water than the setter,
while for the same reason he seldom is so good
for cold, rough work, especially in thorny cover
or coarse grass. In actual merit, including bird
sense, speed, nose, and staying qualities — in fine,
every hunting quality—they rank about even.
The pointer is apt to be the better for the man
who can only occasionally go afield, as he
will keep steady on less work, while to all but
a pointer man, the setter is the more beautiful
and companionable dog. Of the merits of the

34 The Partridge Family

three prominent breeds, Llewellin, Irish, and Gor-
don, a little may here be said appropriately —
possibly their proper rank should be in order as
named.

Breeders of the modern Llewellin setter, encour-
aged by the racing methods of field trials, have
bred for a combination of speed and style likely
to catch a judge’s eye. They have lost a deal of
‘the beauty of the original type, as exemplified by
famous old Llewellins and Laveracks, but they
have produced a racing machine, and what fre-
quently is certainly a rare good dog for an athletic
and keen man. The typical Llewellin now is a
compact bundle of running gear, not so desirable
a companion maybe, but certainly a bird finder.
The actual value of the type depends upon the
individual called upon to give the decision. Many
sportsmen would prefer the handsomer and per-
haps staider animals of a few years ago. The
development of a breed to a point where we find
two types, — one to look at, the other to race, — ze.
“bench type” and “field type,” may or may not
be good for the best interests of that breed.

The Irish setter, as he should be, is a strong,
intelligent, wiry dog, somewhat hard to break and
control, but a rare good one when firmly and
wisely handled. The chief objection to him asa
field worker is based upon his color. However
beautiful the true mahogany red may be, it is

The Quail Z5

extremely difficult to locate when the dog is halted
among rotten logs, stumps, and cover wherein
various shades of red and brown predominate.
The same objection applies to the Gordon, to the
all-black, all-roan, or to any other coat inconspicu-
ous in color. Of course, in the open, the coat is
not so important, but in average quail-shooting
work in cover represents fully three-fourths of the
task; hence, the best coat is a conspicuous mix-
ture of dark and white, which may be easily seen
both in thick cover and against a snowy back-
ground.

Quail-shooting, early in the season, is compara-
tively easy. The birds flush almost underfoot,
they fly only moderately fast, and they cannot
carry off much shot. The chief obstacle to good
scores is thick cover; were it not for this, an
ordinarily good shot should grass about three-
fourths of his birds. Later on it is different;
then half the birds, taking them in and out of
cover, would be an excellent average for the sea-
son. A few suggestions to the novice may not
be out of place.

First, if you have a good dog, let him alone—
keep your eye on him, but let him run. Avoid
all bawling of commands, because the sound of
the voice is apt to cause an untimely flush
when otherwise the bevy might have lain close.
Direct the dog by whistle and signals — birds

36 The Partridge Family

appear to pay no attention to the shrilling ofa
dog whistle. Send a dog into a field from the lee
side whenever possible, then naturally he will beat
up wind with everything in his favor as it should
be. He will go up-wind to his birds (the first time
anyway), so, if you prefer a straightaway shot, you
may go up-wind to the dog and thus secure it in
the majority of cases. Cultivate the habit of
examining the ground near your feet, while at the
same time not losing track of the dog’s move-
ments. The droppings and dusting places of the
birds are at once detected by a practised eye, and
there may be a shed feather here and there which
will give you a line on the age of the bevy.
Should the dog seem to find scent, yet fail to
locate, study the lay of the land, particularly the
nearest cover. If the ground “sign,” as just
mentioned, indicates that birds frequent the field,
the chances are that while the dog has found
scent, the birds are elsewhere. They may have
been recently flushed by some one belonging in
the neighborhood, by a hawk, or some four-footed
foe —perhaps a cat. In any event they will
almost certainly have gone to cover, and probably
are not more than three or four hundred yards
away. Of course dog tracks, footprints, or empty
shells will indicate that somebody has worked the
piece ahead of you. If no sound of shooting
comes from the cover, it is open to you; but if

The Quail 307

you hear shooting, don’t rush over and plunge into
some other man’s sport. There is no harm, how-
ever, in a gentlemanly investigation and a sports-
manlike meeting with the other fellow. You may
make a charming acquaintance and double forces
for the day to mutual advantage. But in true
field courtesy the rights of the situation are his,
and no sportsman will go into action without an
invitation from the man working on the game.
These little matters are well worth attention, for
the observance of the unwritten law is what dis-
tinguishes the sportsman from the fellow out
gunning.

Let us imagine the opening day of an average
season, — bright warm weather, the leaves still on
all growths, and the usual crop of weeds and
burrs up to standard. The sun has been up two
hours, and two men and one good dog are ready
for business. The ground to be worked is typical
of the East, divided into medium-sized fields,
which means many fences with weedy cover about
them and a tree here and there along the side-lines.
A rough classification of the fields would be one-
fourth wheat-stubble, one-fourth standing corn, one-
fourth rough pasture, and the remaining fourth
a combination of stump-lot, thicket, and standing
timber. Of such is the kingdom of —rare good
quail country! that is, itis, or should be. If there
happen to be a trifle of air stirring, so much the

38 The Partridge Family

better, but the seasonable lack of it will not greatly
matter.

From the top of the “fence you Scan@the
ground and decide upon how it may best be
worked. You, being wiser than your comrade,
elect yourself to the presidency with full powers
to force any emergency legislation and to veto
anything that doesn’t suit your book. Because
it is still early, you know that the quail may not
have finished breakfast, so you order a skirmish
through the stubble. You take the collar off the
dog, to prevent a useless drag, or a possible hang-
ing .at some fence, and bid him, “ Hi on!” As
he darts away you slip into the weather berth,
ze. upon the right of your comrade, if he be a
right-handed man. Some overlook the marked
advantages of this position, but you will not do
so because you know that should your companion
accidentally discharge his gun the shot can hardly
come anywhere near you. It is better so, as it is
better in case of accidents that the other fellow
should prove pattern, penetration, and whatever
else may be decided. An artist in his line will walk
along the big furrow at the windward side of the
field and will keep a keen eye on the ground for
the telltale whitish droppings. Meanwhile, the
dog is cutting out his ground to signal by whistle
and hand, and presently he slows a bit, perhaps
lowers his nose, and by increased stern action

The Quail 39

shows that he has found scent. Then up goes
his head and there begins that beautiful and
impressive movement “roading,” or “drawing,”
which ends with the confident “point,” which
never fails to stir the very heartstrings of a true
sportsman. Your dog has them; and now see
that you prove your superior intelligence by aid-
ing instead of bothering him.

There is no occasion for quickening your pace,
or for any of the foolishness of which too many
men are guilty. Don’t bawl at the dog, or go
tearing through the stubble as though you im-
agined the dog to be an unreliable fool. Your
voice may cause the birds to flush, and any show
of excitement will only shake the dog’s sublime
confidence in your superiority and perhaps make
him unsteady. Keep your eye on him, and should
he appear to be wavering, steady him with a low
“To-ho!” otherwise keep your mouth shut. Ten
to one he'll hold the point, for both dogs and
horses appear to understand when they are im-
plicitly trusted, and to behave their best in return.
Still keeping to the right of your comrade, move
steadily forward. The rustle of approaching feet
may possibly cause the dog to twitch a bit, but a
low caution will remedy that. Should he show
signs of an inclination to break point, check him
sharply and make him hold it for a few minutes
while you wait. This discipline is good for him

40 The Partridge Family

and not bad for you, indeed a regular dose of it
may prevent serious faults. As a general rule
birds found as described will flush when the guns
have approached within a few yards. As they go
up the dog should go down, and remain down
until ordered up. Most dogs are broken to drop
to wing and to shot, z.e. to go down upon their
bellies. This prevents any attempt at chasing
or other fool capers, and so far is a useful accom-
plishment. There are, however, objections to it.
A dog down flat cannot see what is going on,
and when his head is buried in thick and perhaps
dusty growth, he gets the least pure air at a time
when he needs the most. For these reasons the
writers dogs are allowed to sit down instead of
dropping. In this position they get all the air they
need, they can see the kills, and, more important,
mark down whichever birds may be only wounded,
or unwounded birds that may have caught their
eye. Some dogs become very clever at marking
down, and this extra accomplishment frequently
proves extremely valuable.

It is an unwritten law among sportsmen that
there should be no cross-firing. The man on the
left is supposed to shoot at birds going to the left,
or at those at the left of the bevy should it drive
straight away. The man on the right governs
himself accordingly, which prevents that annoy-
ing thing, two guns discharged at the same bird,

The Quail 41

or, that still more annoying misunderstanding
about who scored. Systematic shooting is not
only more pleasant, but it bags more birds, as
can be readily imagined. When only one bird
is expected, true courtesy will prompt the better
shot to allow his companion the first chance, or if
the men be equally good marksmen, the host should
give the first chance to his guest. In so doing
virtue may be its own reward, for there is nothing
in the articles of war to prevent a strictly courteous
man from wiping a duffer’s eye the moment after
he has missed! When a doubt exists as to what
may flush, “ Your bird,” or “ Take the bird” from
one or the other will settle the point. And it is
well to observe these small matters, for some excel-
lent men are hasty when their blood is up, especially
after they have missed a few times. True sports-
manship never touches a man on a raw spot.
Good-natured chaff is all very well, but a rather
dangerous form of amusement in the field, where
a single injudicious remark may mar the pure
pleasure of an hour, or perchance of a day. There
are many men who cannot score regularly on
bevies, while they are able to perform quite
creditably on single birds which they walk up
for themselves. The reason for this usually is
nervousness, partly due to the close proximity
of the second gun, and partly to the startling
flush of a number of birds together. In nine

42 The Partridge Family

cases out of ten, a nervous man shoots too
quickly. He is so worked up and so full of
what he intends to do, that he pulls trigger
before the gun is where it should be and then,
if he uses the second barrel, he rattles it in some-
where about the general direction. This, of course,
is no way to shoot, and a comical feature about it
is that every now and then the haphazard method
kills — possibly on a certain lucky day, for several
times in succession. Then the nervous man
grows idiotically enthusiastic, and declares that
he has just caught the hang of it. On some other
day he begins by missing, gets rattled, and makes
a mess of things generally, whereupon he adds to
his excitement by losing his temper and usually
winds up by fluently cursing the dog, or the gun,
or the shells. Young sportsmen should remem-
ber that exhibitions of temper and foolish attempts
at explanation are sure indications of inferior skill
and bad manners. In crisp contrast is the vet-
eran’s perhaps mirthful “I was behind,” or “too
low,” in explanation of his failure. He well
knows where lay the fault, and instead of prat-
ing about it, forms a grim resolve to remedy it
the next opportunity.

There is no need for undue haste in quail
shooting in the open. The birds, as a rule, rise
within a few yards, more often than not from
almost under foot, and almost invariably their

The Quail 43

speed is overestimated even by old hands at the
game. A little stepping-off of the ground after
the kill will prove this. What looked like forty-
five yards will turn out to be about ten yards less,
and it holds good of shorter distances. Indeed,
a quail actually forty odd yards from the gun
would appear to be a very long shot. In cover,
the great majority of shots are at a range less
than thirty yards. If any one doubt this, let him
hang up a bird, then step off thirty yards, and turn
and look. What he sees will teach him some-
thing about distances in cover.

The first bird (early in the season) to show
above the cover is apt to be the old hen. This is
because she is surely the strongest and wisest of
the lot and the natural leader. Presumably, too,
she it is who gives the signal when to take wing,
else it would be hard to account for the almost
even start which all usually get. Later in the
season she frequently is last away, but that is
another matter. She has the noisiest wing, and
she is likely to show larger than the others.
Pick her out, if you can (trained eyes can do it),
and knock her over there and then. Never mind
the others, give her both barrels if required, but
stop her! The reason for this is simple enough.
A number, perhaps the majority of the bevy,
assuredly will follow her to cover and will pitch
near where she does. So long as she is with

44 The Partridge Family

them, the young birds will neither call nor
respond to the most clever imitation of the rally-
ing pipe. With her out of the way, the young-
sters are like so many lost lambs, only too ready
to respond to even a crude imitation of the loved
voice of their shepherd. The habit of looking
for the old hen has another value. It helps a
man to learn how to pick his birds—a most
important feature of steady shooting. When he
can do this, and has learned to lead all quarterers
according to distance, to hold high on straighta-
ways about as high as his head, low on low-flying
straightaways and dead on incomers, and to pull
trigger with the finger and not with the hand and
arm, and to do it without stopping the smooth
swing of the gun,—he should be quite a quail
shot.

Just after the bevy has gone, and when one or
more birds are down, is when the novice or the
over excitable man makes serious blunders. The
first thing to do is to stand in your tracks and
reload, the dog meanwhile being down. Keep
him so for the moment, then calmly order him
on, either to retrieve, or to point dead, according
to his training. Few novices realize the full
importance of a leisurely, methodical deportment.
Dogs are clever judges of character, and a brainy
brute is quick to measure his man. Any undue
excitement, or flurried haste to secure the game,

The Quail 45

will give the dog the tip that he is out witha
man with whom he may take liberties, and he
surely will act upon it. This is why so many
dogs, which are paragons of perfection when
under the eyes of their trainer, act so unruly
when loaned for a day or so; this is why, too, an
otherwise faultily good-natured man will sternly
refuse to loan his dog. To dog owners the writer
would earnestly say,—never lend a fine dog,
except to a man who knows more about dogs
than you do, and even then make sure that the
borrower understands your methods and words of
command, else he may start talking what, to the
poor dog, may sound like Chinook, or Chinese, or
Esquimaux, or anything that is utterly unintelli-
gible. A dog is a poor linguist, and for this and
other good reasons the fewer and more sharply
distinct the words of command, the better.
Never roar at a dog, you are supposed to be the
more intelligent animal of the two; and if you
never bawl your commands, the dog will never
guess that you possess the power to do so, and in
the field he will heed a firmly quiet command as
though it were the harshest you were capable of
delivering. Also omit the too common cursing.
The dog is clean-minded, and so does not under-
stand; while a volley of profanity can only kill
the man’s self-control, and possibly some of his
fun in the Happy Hunting-grounds. Keep all

46 The Partridge Family

conversation with the dog clean and crisply short
—he will then better grasp your meaning. A
loud-voiced, foul-mouthed man is unfit company
for a true sportsman.

In the event of a bird being winged, and what
is termed: “a runner,” keep’ the dog frmly aim
hand, unless he has already been ordered to
retrieve. In that event, of course, he should be
allowed to do his best to carry out the original
order. Too much chasing of runners is bad for
most dogs; in a majority of cases it probably
would be better to lose the bird than to rattle the
dog by a scuffling pursuit. Especially is this
true of young dogs, for in their excitement over
perhaps a flying catch, they are apt to develop
an undesirable hardness of mouth. Old, wise
fellows may safely be allowed considerably more
liberty. Above all, let the man control himself.
The sight of a joint pursuit by a team composed
of a maniac and a temporarily rabid animal is,
to say the least, somewhat depressing. Another
and a most important matter following the first
flushing of the bevy is “marking down,” ze.
keeping a sharp eye on the birds, and carefully
noting just where they pitch. Attention to this
is most valuable, not alone in the saving of time,
but as a preventative against uselessly working a
dog over ground far from the hidden quarry.
Some men become masters of marking. They

The Quail 47

shoot with both eyes wide open, which is much
the better way, because they can keep track of
the movements of more birds than the one aimed
at. such men see everything there is to be
seen; they can distinguish cocks from hens in
full flight; their field of vision is broader and
truer than can possibly be commanded by the
man who closes one eye; in consequence, they are
apt to be consistent performers and most useful
and entertaining companions. They are the men
who while shooting well can always tell you
where your bird fell or if you killed, when you
are in doubt. They know just where the birds
have pitched, where the stragglers, if any, have
gone, and, in fact, all about everything worth
knowing. It is a wise plan to shoot cocks in
preference to hens whenever the choice rests with
the gun, with the single exception of the old hen
referred to. In the case of crossing birds, the
distinction is easy enough, and the intentional
sparing of a hen now and then really is some-
thing akin to a good investment. As a general
rule, there are more cocks than hens in a bevy,
and the killing-off of the cocks is apt to be
followed by a more peaceful, hence more pro-
ductive, breeding season. When a hen goes
whirring away by herself, as frequently happens,
and pitches at a point a safe distance from where
the main flight has gone, she should not be fol-

48 The Partridge Family

lowed. A little of this wise forbearance now and
then will do much to keep up the stock of game.

It was once the writer's fortune to enjoy a
month’s outing with one of those royal good
fellows, a British sportsman-soldier of the genu-
ine stripe—a_ high-bred, accomplished, game
man, who has since proved his heroism to the
reading world. He had shot in most corners
of creation, but he wanted to learn about quail.
One day things were unsatisfactory, as they
sometimes wil! be, and a hard morning’s work
had accomplished nothing. At last the dog pulled
up in grand style on my side of the beat. In
reply to a hail, the captain signalled to go on
and flush. There were but two birds, both hens,
and they were allowed to depart in peace.

“What was the matter, old chap?” he asked.
“You should have stopped that brace.”

“Seed hens,” was the reply.

« S-e-e-d h-e-n-s! Why, what the devil are
seed hens?” was his amazed query.

The mystery was explained, and from his ex-
perience with pheasants he had learned to appre-
ciate that sort of thing, but the term “seed hens”
greatly amused him. Every now and then he’d
mutter the words over, and his mighty shoulders
would shake with mirth. Later in the day there
was lively sport and a hot, impromptu race, for
both guns were at their best. At last a brief

The Quail 49

halt was called for a bite, after which he pulled
out nearly a score of fine birds for inspection.
He was as happy as a big, care-free boy, for he
had shot in perfect form, and was delighted with
his new game; but suddenly his merry comments
ceased, and his face crimsoned. He had just
noticed the brown throats of half his prizes, and
a horrible thought troubled him.

“Great h-e-a-v-e-n-s!” he gasped, “I’ve been
shooting hens —s-e-e-d h-e-n-s!”

He looked as though he wished the earth
would open and take him in, but fortunately the
remedy was at hand. A quick showing of the
other bag, which contained a fair proportion of
both sexes, reassured him; but, as he expressed it,
he had had “a bad turn.” When the outing was
done, he went back to his regiment, and was in
all probability the best quail shot on the roll.
Years passed, and his regiment, with many an-
other, was in the field. A town full of women
and children was besieged and in desperate straits.
There was a forced march to the rescue. Later
to the writer came a letter addressed in a perfectly
villanous scrawl. The writing inside was worse,
and it ran—“ Dear old Chap— Pardon left
maulie —I lost the other and a lot of the arm.
Must practise one-handed. But we saved the
s-e-e-@ h-e-n-s!” He had not forgotten during
all those years. What the women he so gallantly

50 The Partridge Family

rescued might think of that note doesn’t matter.
The young sportsman who aspires to become
a crack quail shot should pay heed to the rally-
ing call, and learn to imitate it to perfection.
Any one possessed of an ear can easily master
it. For short distances, whistling through the
lips alone will admirably serve; but for long-range
calling the writer inserts the tips of thumb and
finger between his lips and produces a sound
which may be distinctly heard for a quarter of a
mile or more. There need be no fear of calling
too loudly, provided it be correctly done. A
quail close at hand raises an astonishing row.
After the first flush, the birds generally speed to
their favorite cover; and once within its shelter, if
the day be fair, they will lie like stones. As a
usual thing, the cover of the North consists ot
one of the following: a bit of wood; a thicket
of tall, slim saplings; a field of standing corn; a
patch of briers; a fence overgrown with vines
and tangled stuff; a big slashing, with fallen
trunks and stumps and piles of brush here, there,
and everywhere; a large, dry ditch with overhang-
ing grass at the sides and a thick, short growth
of weeds at the bottom; a “dirty” field, z.e. one
wild with burrs, thistles, etc. waist-high; the
brushy banks of a stream; a bit of almost dried
marsh, and last, but not least, the broad, frequently
briery ditches either side of a railroad track,

NRE Ng ORAS P EASE UES OED

The Quail aa

Here is, indeed, an infinite variety, and the man
who can score fairly well in all of it is to be
envied.

Now the working of it: the first thing is to
take a smoke, a pleasant way of allowing time
for the scent to become good. If the birds have
taken to the woods, but have not treed, they will
be found under logs, in the crannies of roots, or
among the leaves on the ground. Such condi-
tions frequently mean many fair chances, but
sometimes in a baffling light. The method of
beating should be the same as in the open, with
the exception that the dog may be made to work
closer with advantage. Not infrequently a brace
or so will be promptly located, but there will be
a difficulty in finding the major portion. After
a fair trial has failed, call in the dog, go back near
where the bevy was flushed, and begin calling
loudly. The old hen has been bagged, and you
are playing her role. Do not call too much.
Make it so — Ka-Lor-Hee'/ Ka-Lor-hee ! Ka-.or’-
hee /—three times (emphasize second syllable),
and occasionally four, and with the proper pause
between. Indistinct and too hurried calling
sounds like a young bird, which, while it may
elicit a response from some impatient youngster,
lacks the magic of the message from the old hen.
If this oft-recurring old lady has not been already
conveniently killed, she may presently pipe up

52 The Partridge Family

from somewhere. If so, get afterand exterminate
her as promptly as may be, for the craftiest of
imitators cannot compete with the real thing.
The reason why she must now be killed is because
otherwise she will gather the lot around her
within a few minutes, whereupon the next flush
becomes precisely what you don’t want, — a bevy
flush, — and most likely a further flight into what
may prove most troublesome cover. As each
bird answers, mark its place by the sound, then
send the dog about his business. No fear now
about the scent. When a bird calls, it has
moved, —it won't call from its hiding-place,—and
once it has moved it has betrayed itself to the
dog. The rest will depend upon the guns.

Have the birds gone to thicket or other stuff
too tall to see over and so thick as to render
shooting extremely difficult ? Then there are two
ways open. One, the honest man’s way, is to
smash boldly in, to keep the agreed-upon distance
from your friend, and to beat squarely through.
This means a rake across the nose every now and
then from some thorny growth, a tripping over
briers, an occasional difficult shot, and a little —
just a little — spicy talk when a bird roars up
between your legs and whisks away where you
cannot possibly cover it. This is the honest
man’s way. The other way, the — well, let us
call it the experienced man’s way— is to agree

The Quail 53

upon a line, to crash boldly in, to noisily progress
for a few yards, or until you reach a convenient
opening, and then to sneak up on to a stump or
log from which you can command a fair sweep
all about, and from this stronghold to plug every
quail that the other fellow drives within range.
You are up in the air a bit, but youre on his
right, so he can’t shoot you, while you retain the
glorious privilege of bagging him any time you
care to. Does he anxiously bawl to you, after
your second shot betrays the fact that you haven’t
stirred a peg? What do you care? You bawl
back that you're looking for a bird — which you
are—aren't you? looking for every bird that
gets up.

In a field of standing corn, the experienced
man has to be more careful. Shot will go
through a lot of corn, so the best he can do
is first, to agree upon following a certain space
between the rows, and then to keep, in yachting
parlance, “eating to windward” of the dog. This
will give him cross shots of his stealing, in addi-
tion to straightaways of his own flushing, and
possibly an extra cross shot from his comrade
when he gets on to the game! The fair way is
for each to take a row about twenty yards apart
and to stick to it to the other end of the growth,
then take new rows and beat back. You follow
the rows because it is easier going, and the view

54 The Partridge Family

is clearer. Shoot at every bird you see, and in
emergency just ahead of where a bird has disap-
peared. This is quick, snappy work, but corn
won't stop shot, and the expert kills bird after
bird by means of this fascinating guesswork. It
frequently is a profitable thing to hang a small
bell to a dog’s neck for work in tall corn. The
birds do not mind the bell, the sound of which
tells where the dog is, while the stopping of the
tinkle indicates a point. Frequently in corn and
other cover you find the dog stanchly pointing
and yourself in a commanding position, the par-
ticular advantages of which may be lost by a single
step in any direction. With a dog that does not
flush to order, this is an awkward situation, for
the bird will not rise unless compelled to. It
may be remedied by an energetic imitation of the
“Whir-r-r” of a rising bird. This is done by ex-
pelling the breath so as to cause the tongue to
flutter rapidly. The sound produced will very
frequently start the birds within hearing of it, and
the wrinkle is worth remembering.

The methods of good shots vary. Many make
it a rule to stick to the first large bevy found,
which may mean an entire day’s shooting within
the confines of a single farm. The writer doesn’t
believe in such tactics. To stick to one or two
bevies, and to patiently and laboriously beat them
up by going over the ground again and again, is

ie i eS yee ae —
a

The Quail GS

what may be termed too narrow a system. It
gets birds, ’tis true, but the mere getting of birds
is only a minor part of quail-shooting. A broader
plan is to outline a route at starting which will
include a pleasant section of country, and to
endeavor to cover it all before the light fails.
This is apt to involve a series of skirmishes with
perhaps half a dozen or more bevies, and truly
this is the best of quail-shooting. The man who
is out for pure sport and healthful, vigorous exer-
cise need not fear a long tramp. The policy of
here a little and there a little, will lead him
through miles of pleasant places, will give him
a broader knowledge of the country, and will keep
him from that crime of crimes — exterminating
a bevy. The man who hunts too closely leaves
desolation in his wake. It is of him the farmer

says,— “Some feller from town was out here
‘tother day an’ cleaned ‘em all up —never left
one!” Such a man is not a sportsman in the

true sense of that term. The reader may rest
assured that the man who kills sparingly is wise.

“Who kills a few, then tramps away,
Finds welcome true another day,”

is a bit of jingle which might well be committed
to memory. Apropos of this point, old shooters
know, and young ones must learn, that the farmer
may be made the sportsman’s best friend. All that

56 The Partridge Family

is necessary for the consummation of this satisfac-
tory relationship is the exercise of ordinary common
sense on the part of the man from town. Becausea
man may happen to wear rough clothes, and to be
slow and quaint of speech, are no signs that he also
is a fool. In point of fact, he usually is a shrewder
judge of human nature than is theaverage city man;
and the young “ town feller” who thinks to “ jolly”
him, or in any way to overreach him, is liable to
fall’ into woful error, The “Rube” ot ther comme
papers is a very far-fetched individual. The city
may be strange to him; but in the country he is
all there. and in his own quiet way is frequently
almost sorry for the greenness of his friend from
town. He has his rights, he knows what they
comprise, and, as a rule, all he asks of a stranger
is a proper observance of them. This point he
rightly insists upon.

The sportsman, therefore, being a gentleman,
and realizing that he enters upon a man’s land
only by courtesy of the owner, will not forget the
proprieties. He will carefully replace bars should
he have let them down, he will close all gates be-
hind him, he will keep his dog under proper con-
trol, and allow no scaring of stock or poultry ;
should he snap a fence-rail in crossing, he will
promptly repair the damage, and he will not fire
his gun where either the report or the charge can
cause the least bit of trouble or damage. If he

The Quail yi

be at all in doubt about his being welcome on a
man’s place, he will go in a manly, straightforward
fashion to the house, and ask permission to shoot
over the farm. The careful observance of these
little matters is what secures that valuable fran-
chise — the freedom of a good shooting district.
There are “wrinkles” in this connection, too. A
cheery greeting along the road costs nothing, and
greases a heap of gear. A small bundle of maga-
zines and papers, stale to you, but treasures in the
back country, costs only a trifle of trouble, and
will be appreciated, never fear; while the offer of
a fair share of the bag at the close of the day at
once stamps the maker of it as a man of the
proper brand. It is a perfectly safe offer, too, for
only once has the writer known it to be smilingly
accepted. On that occasion the last leg of the
homeward trip was by canoe, and upon disem-
barking the old dog kept nosing about the stern
of the craft as though something good lay there.
It was good —nay, rich! for it proved to be a
bundle which contained the proffered birds, a nice,
red, beautifully polished apple, and —a nursing-
bottle, full of the sweetest milk. The only fault
about the bottle was that the nose was plugged
with a pellet of dough. The writer hadn’t used a
nursing-bottle for forty years, but he had delight-
ful recollections. So he squeezed out the bit of
dough, munched the apple, and drank the milk

58 The Partridge Family

(which was all right), according to his youthful
teaching. Next day he solemnly returned the
bottle, and described his set-to with it. A pair of
very bright eyes at once examined the rubber tube,
then a very red face left the room. The old farmer
laughed till he cried, then asked his wife, “ D’ye
believe he done it?” whereupon that wise old
soul wagged her gray head in an ecstasy of bliss,
and cackled out: “Ill bet he done it) ihe
joke’s on darter! O dear! O dear!”

There was free shooting on that farm ever
after, and the good-will of those worthy old souls
helped to secure valuable privileges on adjacent
lands.

The surly farmer and the seldom-met, downright
mean one are different propositions, yet they can
be manipulated. Once there was a mean farmer
—just an ornery cuss — who never shot, didn’t
love birds, but was just mean on general principles.
There was a big thicket at the back of his place,
and it was full of quail, and late in the fall there
were woodcock there too. In the nearest town
was a prosperous grain merchant; his specialty
was barley, and his influence had induced a few
farmers, including the mean one, to forbid shoot-
ing on their lands, that he might reap the benefit.
He had a confidential man whose business it was
to keep tabs on the barley crop. This man was
about the country a good deal, and he slightly

The Quail 59

resembled the writer. He couldn’t shoot worth
sour apples, but he occasionally carried a gun.
One day he tried to borrow the writer’s favorite
dog. A prompt refusal was the first impulse; but
a brilliant idea prevented what would have been
a mistake. The dog was loaned; the man had
about an hour’s featherless shooting; but when he
returned he was enthusiastic over the hosts of
birds he had seen. He had a peculiar pair of
extra long leggins, and these the writer borrowed
for next day, partly to get square for the loan of
the dog, and partly to help out a nefarious scheme.
In those days smokeless powder was a novelty;
but the writer had seventy-five shells loaded with
it.

When I started afield, conspicuous leggins and
all, and with the identical dog, I bore no slight
resemblance to the other fellow. The farmer, I
knew, would be working in a certain field, so I
decided to give him a friendly hail from the road,
which meant a pretty safe distance. The farmer
shouted back: “Hello! Back agin, hey ?—all
right!” Then, indeed, was there fast footing to
that thicket, and a rapid fire action of the hottest
kind. The new shells were discreetly silent, and
the chastened, holy joy of the scheme made the
gun strangely accurate.

I guessed the farmer didn’t understand the
intricacies of a modern shooting coat, so, with

60 The Partridge Family

twenty birds concealed about my person, as it
were, and with a brace ostentatiously held by the

legs, I passed out within plain view. In response —

to the expected hail of, “Git any?” I held up the
two, and then smiled resignedly as the farmer
roared after 'me: ““Yed best put more stui an
them shells o’ yourn. Ye was lucky to git airy
one!” Later, the farmer chaffed the grain man
about his poor showing, and — would you believe
it?—that grain man actually had the nerve to
try and lie out of it, and swore he had never gone
back for a second trial. It is possible, too, to cir-
cumvent an overmean farmer by quietly beating
his ground, and, without any shooting, driving the
birds on to the next farm, and there “ giving them
beans.”

It has been whispered that some men have a
nasty habit of calling, gun in hand, on a farmer,
and pretending that they are interested in the
purchase of grain, or stock, or fruit — any of which
is to be delivered later on to some well-known
firm. The presence of the gun is explained in
some simple way,— ‘Am no hunter, you know,
but thought I might see a hawk, or crow, or
squirrel, or mebbe might get a pretty bird for the
wife’s hat,” and so on. This, occasionally, draws
the coveted invitation, and the quail catch it. It’s
no bad wrinkle, for it is a simple matter to make
a gauzy arrangement with some reputable firm,

The Quail 61

that will gladly purchase farm products at the
regular market price. When the average farmer
has once opened his heart, he is your friend, and
the wise sportsman will take care not to lose him.

@ovreturn to the meld proper. A couple of
useful wrinkles are as follows: when the birds
go to brush heaps, as they often will, and the dog
has pointed, it may be well to appear stupid and
to appeal to the other fellow for advice. Some
men love to show their superior knowledge, and
your comrade may nibble at your bait, and
promptly illustrate the proper method of getting
a bird out of brush — which is by jumping on the
pile. He gets the bird out of the brush, but you
get the shot nine times out of ten.

Have the birds gone to a long, weedy, vine-
fameleds fence? Tact is valuable here. The
windward side is the choice position, because
the dog will go to leeward of the cover, and,
naturally, fully three-fourths of the birds will go out
the other side, which means that the man on that
side will get the cream of the shooting. You
will keep this point in mind and will suffer your
comrade to reach the fence first. Nine men out
of ten want to stick close to the dog, so when he
goes over, your friend is almost certain to follow.
Of course, you never tell him to go that side, —
that would be unsportsmanlike, — but there is a
way of stopping to fiddle with a leggin, or a shoe-

62 The Partridge Family

string, when he is most impatient, and so practi-
cally force him over in advance. Once over, he
has to stay there, and not one green hand in one
thousand will ever reason out why you get the most
shots. In beating a ditch, especially a railroad
ditch, the choice place is in the middle of it; for
the cover is seldom very high, and the nature of
the ground is all in the gun’s favor, as most of the
birds will follow the ditch and afford the fair-
est of chances. When the banks are high, one
man must keep up where he can see all about, and
mark down lost birds. The experienced man
usually sees that the other fellow has this task.
Old hands know all about these fine points,
and they are merely referred to here for the bene-
fit of a novice, who, if he be wise, will bear them
allin mind. Perhaps my present attitude some-
what resembles the tactics of the card-sharper,
who goes about exposing the tricks of gamblers,
yet the motive is good. Needless to say, by far
the better way, in fact the only sportsmanlike
way, is to insist upon a fair and square sharing
of all hard work, rough beats, and choice posi-
tions. It is no credit to anybody to get the better
of a game in which a raw ’un is pitted against
a master hand. True sportsmanship prefers a
difficult problem, and there is ever more satisfac-
tion in winning against the odds than with them.
Sharp practice is the deadly foe to sport; yet

The Quail 63

it is astonishing how far some men will go in
their eagerness to make the heaviest bag.

An instance of this may be referred to. A
certain, or rather a very uncertain, man of great
ability and high social position once invited the
writer to join him for a day’s quail-shooting. He
furnished the trap, dog, and lunch, and during
the drive out and three-fourths of the shooting
he was as pleasant a host as man could desire.
The sport proved excellent and by mid-afternoon
the bag was a heavy one, the writer having two
or three birds the better of it. In following the
game a series of thickets was entered, a peculiar-
ity of the growth being that, while very dense
and baffling from about waist-high upward, it
was comparatively open below, as though the spot
had been at one time under water.

While the guns were some distance apart, an
unexpected grouse roared up directly in front of
the writer. The shot was an extremely difficult
one,—a guess through the leaves, —yet there
was that peculiar feeling which tells a man when
he is exactly right. It was followed by a distant
thump on the ground and a somewhat prolonged
buzzing of wings. This induced the writer to
squat down and peer away through an opening
below the roof-like cover. He saw the wings of
the grouse as it struggled, and in a moment a
boot followed by a hand came into view. The

64 The Partridge Family

hand picked up the bird, and a moment later a
shot rang out, followed by a cry of, “I got him!”

It was a startling revelation, for there was no
mistaking act or motive. Nothing was said on
either side, but one brain did a deal of thinking.
At the end of what otherwise would have been a
perfect day, the sole retort was the presentation
of the entire bag with the remark, “You value
them more than most men, and no doubt can find
plenty of use for them.” That ended the matter,
but never again did the man propose a joint de-
bate of the game question. He must have guessed,
tor he couldnt see; The chances are that ac
later thought that one grouse rather a high-priced
fowl. It was a mighty fine bird, too!

NEAR THE END OF THE SEASON

This is the time beloved of the skilled and
vigorous quail-shooter. The birds are at their
best — strong, full-feathered, and educated in the
hard school of experience. They go to cover
like so many cannon-balls, to be stopped only by
the man whose eyes and hands work in the most
perfect unison. There is a tang to the air which
makes a fellow feel like stepping off five miles an
hour, while a dog can work hard all day and keep
his tongue in his mouth. Scent, as a rule, is of
the best; the leaves are down, so that what a
month before was baffling cover is now only suf-

The Quail 65

ficiently difficult to thoroughly test one’s skill.
The sole fault of the season is that days are short
—all too short, when men and dogs are full of
Poimeer > and “go.

At the first flush, birds may be trusted to whizz
away to the worst cover in the neighborhood, for
they have settled upon their winter quarters —
the best shelter, hence the hardest cover to shoot
in. But what of that? A clean kill now is
more gratifying than were three of the easier
time, and the birds are apt to lie very close after
being scattered. Every now and then there comes
a clear, still, warm day, when woods and thicket
are flooded with light. This is the day of days.
The magic of it makes a fellow feel like sparring
a few rounds, running a race, mixing in a promis-
cuous scuffle, or just yelling in sheer exuberance
of animal spirits. If after a two or three mile
sharp walk as a pipe-opener he doesn’t shoot in
his best form,—and he'll have need to, — hed
best get him to a hennery, for domesticity is
what he needs.

The gun must be swung farther ahead now,
and woe unto the man who stops that smooth
swing as he presses the trigger. It is better to
be too far ahead than one inch too far back. A
single pellet forward of the wings may prove a
clean kill, while a number of pellets too far back
may result in a lost bird left to die miserably.

66 The Partridge Family

So heave ahead, my hearties, a good foot or more,
according to distance, for round, humming wings
are wondrous strong these braw, clear days. And
forget not the calling. Allow them a bit more
time than sufficed for the youngsters, and they
will respond, as in salad days.

Is the air deathly still and gray with the com-
ing snow? Then your work is cut out for you.
They know, as do all wild things, when the white
wolf of the North is running a trail to the south-
ward. Though they be of that season’s hatch,
they instinctively feel the coming change, and
they huddle close where the strange, cold, white
feathers shall not touch them. Then the dog of
the magic nose and the developed brain is the
chap to find them. There will be practically no
foot-scent. He must catch it in the air and draw
straight and truly; so when you see his grand
head rising higher and higher, and the sensitive
nose apparently reaching and feeling for some-
thing, clear for action, there will be music in a
minute.

After the snow has come the cover appears to
open and dwindle like magic. One can see
almost anywhere, and the problem is now sim-
plified to a straight argument of skill versus
speed. The birds now hang about thickets,
brush heaps, and what rank weeds may be left

standing, and they are apt to cling to the rail-

The Quail 67

roads, where they are sure of gravel and apt to
find grain which has fallen from passing cars. It
may be well, too, if close attention be paid to
fields where the corn has been left in shocks.
Every bird in the neighborhood will know all
about that corn.

After a heavy fall of snow followed by high
winds, there are sure to be big drifts about the
fences. Sometimes flushed birds will make for
a drift which covers some favorite spot, and will
dart head foremost into the snow. This is a
common trick with ptarmigan and ruffed grouse;
but the writer does not recall having seen it men-
tioned in connection with quail. That they will
so dive into snow is a fact, and a trick which
frequently baffles the best of dogs. Therefore,
when a bird has been truly marked down at a
drift, and the dog fails to locate it, carefully scan
the snow, and possibly a small, round hole may
be there to explain the seeming mystery. The
writer has found those holes, cleanly cut and
without a single mark to betray the makers of
them, and he has inserted a hand, and either
caught or scared the seven senses out of a
warm, feathery thing, which gave a sudden con-
vulsive start, then burst through the snow roof
like a miniature torpedo.

During snow time it is possible to have sport
without the aid of a dog. The writer has en-

68 The Partridge Family

joyed it many a time, when, for some reason, a
dog was not available. Indeed, he has gone so
far as to purposely leave the dog at home. To
the man who loves the woods there is a peculiar
charm about this still hunting, for such it truly
is. The warm moccasins make not a sound,
while one bends to his reading of the great white
page — the register of Nature’s snug hostelry.

The little people, furred and feathered, write
firmly and plainly. They do not understand the
joys of late hours, tobacco, and hard liquor, so
the signature of each is beautifully distinct, and
anything else that may be added is unquestion-
ably true — evidently they are ignorant of a num-
ber of popular professions, zo¢ad/y journalism.
There, then, is the record for the still hunter to
read.

To find the trim footprints of a bevy, to read
their age at a glance, and, when the sign warrants,
to steal after them upon silent feet as the lynx
steals upon the northern hare, is no bad fun.
There is a tenseness about the situation, as one
approaches a probable flush, which, to say the
least, is exhilarating. It is strange how the
hands will grip the gun, and how the breath
will check, should a dry leaf rustle, or a harm-
less handful of snow fall with a muffled “prup.”
A glance of reddish brown where an unsuspected
squirrel darts across an opening, will make the gun

THE NATIONAL GAME-BIRD

(Bob-white)

The Quail 69

fairly leap to shoulder. And then —at last —
most likely when you are a-straddle of a snowy log,
or cautiously raising the rear foot — “ Burr-r-r!”

Did you get one? Then indeed you are a
good ’un! What! TZwo, did you say? Then
Master — see!— I grovel at thy feet — snow and
all! Thy humble servant will meekly follow ten
paces to the rear, for thou art indeed “that
wizard of woodlands, foreknowing their deep-
hidden secrets,” of whom the poet sang.

THE ENEMIES OF THE QUAIL

Next to man, the deadliest foes of the quail
are,—crusted snow, extreme cold, hawks, and
domestic cats, which have taken to foraging in
the covers. There are other destroyers, such as
foxes and owls; but careful observation has failed
to prove very serious charges against them, the
chief destroyers unquestionably being the four
first mentioned. It is unfortunate that the rav-
ages by crust and cold cannot well be prevented.
The quail’s habit of huddling under brush piles
and other shelter leaves it peculiarly liable to be
snowed under, which, with certain weather con-
ditions, may mean the destruction of nine-tenths
of the birds in a given district. The worst pos-
sible thing for a quail country is an unusually
heavy snow late in the winter, followed by a mix-
ture of rain and sleet, suddenly changing to bitter

70 The Partridge Family

cold. This is not infrequent, and the first sign
of it is enough to give a sportsman a dose of the
dismals. The birds know when the snow is
coming and they creep under the brush, intend-
ing to remain there until the weather has cleared.
They know nothing about the peril, as they
calmly submit to being covered by a foot or more
of snow, which for the time only helps to make
the quarters more comfortable. Then the rain
comes and wets the surface all about, then the
sleet stiffens it, and by its drumming warns the
birds below not to stir for a while; lastly, the wind
suddenly shifts to the north, the cold becomes
intense, and every foot of damp snow promptly
hardens into solid ice, perhaps capable of sus-
taining a man’s weight. The quail are now im-
prisoned beneath a dome of crystal, which may
endure for days. If it does, the mournful sports-
man scouting after the snow has gone overturns a
heap and finds — that which makes him curse the
elements thoroughly and bitterly, for right well he
knows how long it may take to repair the damage.

The quail which actually are frozen, victims of
extreme cold alone, are comparatively few. So
long as they can obtain a proper amount of food,
they are very hardy. “A quail with a full crop
never freezes,” is an old saying with a deal of
truth in it. The last severe spell of a winter is apt
to be the most deadly, because then the birds are

The Quail 71

sure to be in more or less poor condition. By
that time the various growths have been closely
gleaned, what little food there may be being
frosted and deprived of most of its nourishing
quality. If the winter prove unusually severe, with
much deep snow, food should be placed where
the birds can get it without having to go too far
from their favorite shelter. Corn, wheat, and
buckwheat are the best foods, and a few bushels
of one or other of these, placed behind some form
of shelter where, as the tracks indicate, the quail
frequent, will do much to help birds through that
trying period near the end of the winter. The
trouble of attending to this will be richly repaid,
for it must be remembered that a very few pairs
of birds will stock a large farm to its full capacity.

Two destroyers which have attained an unen-
viable reputation are Cooper’s hawk (Acczpiter
coopert), and the sharp-shinned hawk (A. velox).
These two are about the only hawks which do
serious damage. The proper justice for them
weighs about an ounce and one-eighth, and should
be administered at every opportunity. When
birds are regularly fed, one or other of these
rascals is almost certain to find it out and hang
about the nearest cover. For this reason it is a
good plan to carry a gun and a few heavily loaded
shells whenever one goes to put out more food or
to learn how the quail are faring.

72 The Partridge Family

When a cat takes to ranging the covers, it soon
becomes a persistent destroyer, the habits of quail
making them easy prey. An excellent course is
to shoot every cat found beyond its proper range
of the barnyard and the garden. It may be as
well to carefully conceal the bodies, for many
folk who own cats do not realize what bad brutes
their pets may be; and besides, as we all know,
“What the eyes don’t see, the heart don’t sorrow
for,” as it is popularly expressed. Foxes, great
horned owls, and other foes need not be dwelt
upon, for farmers and sportsmen alike will shoot
them at every opportunity.

Protectors, however, should not fall into error
where some of the birds of prey are concerned.
The marsh-hawk, the long-winged fellow with the
white patch on his rump, seen tacking over
marshes, does more good than harm, as his fa-
vorite prey is the destructive short-tailed field-
mouse. The red-tailed hawk will pounce upon
fowls, but seldom molests game. He earns a
right to live by destroying certain mischief
workers. The fine, red-shouldered hawk chiefly
confines himself to a diet of mice, snakes, and
grasshoppers. The beautiful little sparrow-hawk,
seen poised in air, or perched upon a telegraph
pole or a dead stub, feeds upon grasshoppers,
crickets, and other insects during warm weather,
while in winter his regular diet is mice. Need-

en ee et ee ae

The Quail 73

less to say, he should not be killed for any pur-
pose.
A DAY OVER DOGS

You've seen an old cart-horse — one of the sort
with spavins, and splints, and grease-heel, and poll-
evil, and a few little things like that — released in
pasture? You've seen his ponderous joy as he
grasped the fact that for a time at least he was
free from galling straps; you’ve seen him put his
tail up and snort, then take a good, grunty old
roll, and wind up with a stiff-jointed trot around
and a few extra fool-capers on the side? Well, I
felt just that way.

All one night I had whirled westward, sleeping
like a winter bear, content with my single dream
that I was flying farther and farther from the
deep city cafions of Gotham. Then a black
hand pawed at me, and a voice said: “Git up,
Boss, — you done got but ten minutes!”

He was right, as porters always are, and, as I
hurried through dressing, an occasional peep
through the window detected thickets and bits of
woodland which were strangely familiar. There
were the old grounds, now, so the letter had said,
carrying a grand crop of quail, and here I was
almost ready and almost arrived. A few minutes
later, that best of fellows, whom I shall call
“Doc,” was leading the way to his snug resi-
dence, and telling me all about it. The dogs

74 The Partridge Family

were in fine fettle, everything was ready, and we
would shoot the following day.

Before turning in, Doc let his brace of setters
into the house. They were handsome, medium-
sized bitches of Llewellyn-Laverack blood, black-
and-white, and named respectively Madge and
Joss. I had shot over Madge a few days the pre-
vious season, and we were curious to know if she
would remember me. The brace crouched on a
rug, and we sat and watched them. Presently
Madge became restless and sniffed a few times in
my direction; then she crawled to me and rooted
her nose under my hand, while her tail beat a
soft tattoo of welcome. “By George! she re-
members you,” exclaimed Doc; and as I looked
into her eager, pleading brown eyes, I knew that
she did. Those eyes were talking as only a good
dog’s eyes can, but she had not yet heard me
speak. Finally I patted her and said, “ Good old
Madgie.” In an instant she was up and capering
about like a mad thing, which performance so
affected Joss that she cut a few capers out of
sympathy. They made such a row that we had
to send them away.

Doc routed me out at six o’clock in some sort
of fog which he termed morning, and presently
we were in the trap, with the dogs snuggled
under the seat. The nag was a stepper, the road
was good, and we rattled along famously. Farms,

The Quail Ns

forest, and thickets slipped behind in rapid succes-
sion, each recalling some red-letter or disappoint-
ing experience, for we had shot over that country
for years. The district we traversed was perhaps
not strictly picturesque; yet seen in the early sun-
light it seemed to me to be positively beautiful.
Here stretched broad fields of bleaching corn or
stubble, bordered with crimson sumach, and backed
by smoky thicket; next, a long pasture, deep
green with late fall grass, and spangled with
scattered points of color where the painted
leaves had settled; then a big woodland aflame
with the crimson and gold of maples, the
purple and bronze of oaks, and yellows of nut
CECES:

Nine miles from the starting-point we reached
a snug farm-house. A boy took the horse, and in
brief time we had got into skeleton coats, put
guns together, and were ready for business. The
farmer, a good, ruddy-faced old soul, too old for
more sport, had eyed me for some time in a
doubtful sort of way. I had known him years
before; but my name this time had failed to rouse
his memory. Just for fun I whistled, “ Aa-doz-hee /
ka-loi-hee/” Heat once turned and said: “ That's
pretty good. I knowed a chap though that could
beat it. Years ago he used to hunt round here.
He was a regular loafer —a long, lean, slab-sided
cuss, always a-foolin’ with birds, an’ no good fur

76 The Partridge Family

nothin’ but shootin’. But he could call quail.
I’ve seen him call ’em right to him.”

“What came of him?” asked Doc.

“T reckon he died about ten year ago. He was
a consumptive, anyhow, and no good on earth,”
added the old man; “but he could call quail bet-
ter ’n any man livin’.”

‘“What was his name?” persisted Doc.

“Waz-al, I sorter forget his actool name, but
you ought to know it. His dad was parson to
the brick church in town, nigh on to fifty year, I
reckon.”

Doc was choking with laughter when I turned
on our friend and said: “See here, you old snoozer,
what do you mean by calling me a consumptive
loafer? Ill take a fall out of you first thing you
know!”

He boggled his eyes and gasped like a freshly
landed bass; then he dived for me, and we had
fun. “Durn you,” he said, “what a whalin’ big
cuss you've growed. But I’m mighty glad to see
you, loafer or no loafer,” and the old cock laughed
till his gills turned blue. Before we got away he
begged us to see his neighbor. He said, “ Why,
we were talkin’ bout you only last week, when
we scart up some birds, and if you'll only fool old
Tom like you fooled me, [’ll kill a fat chicken
agin supper time.”

The cat found a chicken’s head in the yard
that afternoon.

The Quail a

The first field, a big stubble, held no birds, but
it proved the superb quality of the dogs. They
went off at the word and beat it out like field-
trial winners, working independently, quarter-
ing beautifully, and maintaining an astonishing
rate of speed. Once Madge whirled and stopped
for a second on a lark; but brief as her halt was,
Joss had time to back her fifty yards away. Doc’s
face fairly shone as he grunted at me, “Great
team—eh?” They were good beyond question,
and the second field showed them to even better
advantage. The game little ladies started fast
and kept warming the pace, till they were racing
before they had cut out half their ground. To
and fro they swept in beautiful long tacks, sailing
along with smooth, flawless action, which hinted
of plenty of staying power. Heads carried high
and sterns ceaselessly whipping flanks gave to
their work that style and finish so pleasing to
the eye of a sportsman. No order was given, for
none was required. At intervals Doc whistled
sharply to turn one or other; with this exception
they worked as their bird sense prompted. We
followed as leisurely as their speed would allow,
and we did not have to walk far.

Madge’s white nose rose higher and tested the
breeze for a moment, then she went galloping
dead to windward. No tacking, no ground-scent,
no roading: just a rapid run up the wind, and

78 The Partridge Family

a stop so sudden that in one bound she was at
speed, and at its finish she was rigid.

“Oh, you little beauty!” was my thought, as
Doc tersely inquired, “ How’s that?”

From the boundary fence came Joss, cracking
on more sail every stride, for a fringe of weeds
hid Madge from her, and she seemed to fear she
had been outfooted. As she swung around the
weeds, her eye caught the white banner of a tail
marking her rival’s position, and she propped so
suddenly that she almost toppled over. Again
Doc queried, “ How’s that?” and again I said
nothing, but feasted my eyes on the faultless pic-
ture they made. ;

We watched them for some minutes, and I
would have given a fat price for the scene on
canvas. The mass of glowing foliage in the
background, the smoky distance, the deep crim-
son of the sumachs against the grays of the lich-
ened fence, the bronzy briers and partly faded
small growths of the foreground, and the two
black-and-white forms, set and straining with con-
trolled excitement and intensity of purpose, might
well have formed an illustration of the best there
is in American sport.

“ Let’s flush,” said Doc, and we moved forward.
Then it seemed as though a shell exploded in-the
weeds, and a storm of feathered missiles went
whizzing toward the wood. The two guns

The Quail 79

sounded as one; then Doc’s second barrel rang
out, and a puff of feathers told that his hand was
in. I always shoot with both eyes open, and the
eye that had not been too intent on the birds had
detected a swiftly leaping shape which darted
into the grass. Swinging round, I held low and
well ahead of the shaking grass.

“What's that — rabbit?” asked Doc.

“What’s that” answered for itself. We heard
a wrathful sputtering, like a man’s sweet, low talk
when he unexpectedly finds something hard in
a dark room, and then a voice —such a voice!
—cried unto heaven, “ Mee — yow-r-r — ow-r /
Mee-yow-r-r |”

We grinned at each other as I said, “ Keep
the dogs down till I finish that devil.” It was
a big, hard-looking Thomas, and the number nine
had raked him well forward. He was growling
and swearing savagely, and he made a bounce at
me. Old foot-ball training helped there. The
right boot met him fairly, and he sailed over a
clump of bushes.

“Wonderful what a trifle of ‘number nine’ can
do,” sagely remarked Doc.

“Shot or boot?” I retorted.

“Oh, the second barrel, by all means; you’re
deadliest with it!” snapped Doc, grinning like a
fiend.

The dogs soon found the dead birds and, after

80 The Partridge Family

a reasonable wait, we followed the bevy into the
cover.

“T didn’t see her,” I remarked; “couldn’t make
her out. , Did yourset her:

“ No, both cocks here. So you still stick to the
old lady theory?”

“Certainly [I -do; ll get her next time; but
I'd rather had her now.”

The ground was strewn with logs and small
brush piles, and Madge and Joss promptly
showed that they knew a thing or two. The
dashing, high-headed work of the open changed
to a fast but cautious skirmishing —a deadly
method in such ground.

After a period of uncertain progress, Doc asked,
“Where’s Joss?” Then he whistled sharply, but
no Joss appeared. We knew what was up, and
at length descried a white point above a distant
log. Madge bore off toward it, but before reach-
ing the log she stiffened into a showy point be-
side a lot of brush. A bird flushed, and Doc
killed, Madge still holding the point. A kick
at the brush flushed another, which fell to me.
After Madge had located the dead, she caught
sight of her mate, and promptly backed.

Moving on to flush, we discovered Joss gamely
proving her stanchness. She had stopped while
in the act of drawing across a big log, and was
standing almost on her head, her hind feet high

The Quail 81

upon the log. In spite of the long wait, the flush
and shooting so near at hand, she had not moved
a hair.

There was fun a-plenty. We ordered Joss on;
but the instant she had got into a more comforta-
ble position, she set herself and refused to budge.
I kicked a bit of brush, and right from under my
feet went a bird. Doc stopped it, then he kicked
the brush and a brace whizzed forth—one of
them probably is whizzing yet. A kick at a
branch sent a jaunty wee hen whirring to a medi-
cated doom, then two white-throats boomed away
together, and I made a clean double.

“Confound you— you always get the best of
it!” exclaimed Doc. His voice started another,
and I snapped it and did some soulful chuckling.
But the joy was short-lived, for two puffs of smoke
floated away, and Doc put in another shell. We
had fired so nearly together that neither had
heard the other’s gun.

The dogs moved about a bit, but soon stiffened
again, evidently on more birds in the pile. Kick-
ing failed to start them, so I climbed upon the
pile and set it all swaying. Then, with a resound-
ing whirr, the remainder of the bevy darted out.
Doc stopped a brace.

This ended the excitement, so a halt was called
forlunchandapipe. The dogs curled up together
and took their bread in turn. The tips of the

82 The Partridge Family

white sterns were dyed pink from whipping rough
brush, and dark welts along silken flanks told that
it had not been all fun. We examined their feet
and removed every burr from their coats. When
the word was given, they sprang to their work as
though they had not run a yard that day.

We tramped across country for an hour before
they again made game, but they never slackened
speed, beating every field as prettily as the first.
Where a wheat-stubble joined a sea of standing
corn, Madge suddenly halted. Upon our turning
to see Joss back from the open, we discovered
that amiable lady rapidly roading along a furrow.
In a moment she too halted, and there were two
bevies, or one dog was on foot-scent. Doc’s secret
preference showed itself. He at once started for
Joss, remarking, “ They’ve run out of the corn
to feed, come on!”

I looked at Madge. She was steady as a rock,
and I hated to slight the creature that had carried
a memory of me for a year. I walked to her,
past her, turned and looked at her and said,
“Madgie, old girl, you're wrong this time, I’m
afraid.” The stiffened stern waved slightly, the
quivering ears dropped a trifle, then rose again,
and the grand eyes rolled toward me with an ex-
pression which said as plainly as words: “If I’m
wrong, I don’t know it; I’m doing my best to
please you.” I turned aside, made one step —

The Quail 83

two steps; then something grazed a leggin, and
she stiffened beside my foot. I reached down and
patted her. To the hand she felt hard as a board,
and the tense muscles twitched curiously. Once
more I moved ahead, turned, and said, “ Madgie,
where are —”

“ Burr—r-r-r-urr ! ”

Not a bevy, but a pack of about forty birds
roared up ten yards away and started for the
standing corn. I rattled in both barrels, and
three birds fell. Like an echo came two shots
from Doc, followed by a warning cry. I hurried
a shell into the right barrel and turned in time
for a chance at a second bevy as it reached the
corn. A bird fell, and I saw Doc gather a brace.

There were two hours of daylight left, and there
were sixty or more quail in the corn. A Joshua
would have been worth ten dollars an hour, in
advance. The stalks towered above our heads,
and the ground was a bit too clean for birds to
lie very close; but the sport lost no spice on that
account,

Up and down the rows we tramped abreast,
getting shots every few minutes and missing now
and then. Often we could not see the birds
when they rose, but many a beautiful bit of dog
work and brilliant kill rewarded us. The birds
were scattered all over the place, and only the
approach of dusk prevented the making of a tre-

84 The Partridge Family

mendous bag. Shadows stole from the woods and
blurred the rows of corn till buzzing wings might
sound with impunity anywhere. Doc shouted,
“Want to go through once more?” I yelled
back,.* Poo dark!”

How we suddenly discovered that we were very
weary ; how we tramped two miles too far trying
to locate our farmer and his chicken; how Madge
jogged contentedly at heel while Joss persisted in
ranging through the darkness; how we finally
gathered in the chicken; how we almost fell
asleep during the long ride home, need not be
dwelt upon.

Doc’s better half was patiently waiting. She
scanned the tired faces and bulging coats, and
knew things had gone well that day. Before
letting the dogs go to feed, she dropped on her
knees between them, and with an arm about the
neck of each, she plumped out the awful question,
“Which do you think is the best?” I was in
a mighty tight place, and I knew it. Fate, how-
ever, was kind, for I happened to notice the arm
about Madge tightening in a way that was, to say
the least, suggestive. To be candid, my chief im-
pression was that those dogs were exceptionally
fortunate brutes; but that was not the question.
Risking a random shot, I ventured, “ Well, if
Doc will put Madge in the coming field trials, I'll
remain to see that running.”

The Quail 85

It was a clean kill. With proud triumph she
informed her lord and master that I was the best
judge of dogs that had ever lived.

Doc’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he
drawled: “Won't you ever learn to weigh his
words? Joss can hang her—and he knows it.”

Doc was right.

THE FLORIDA BOB-WHITE
(C. v. floridanus)

This bird almost might be termed the bantam
of the common Bob-white. Scientific authori-
ties have agreed to consider it a separate race;
but to the eye of the average sportsman it is
merely an undersized individual of the northern
species. The important differences are the
smaller size and the darker color throughout.
The race is confined to Florida, and may be
found upon all suitable ground within the bor-
ders of the state. Its habits differ but slightly,
if at all, from those of C. vergenzanus. Its favor-
ite haunts are cultivated grounds bordered by the
natural cover. The mating season extends, ac-
cording to locality, from about the end of Feb-
ruary to April. The nest is carefully concealed,
perhaps under a palmetto, or in rank grass, or
weeds. The eggs closely resemble those of the
northern bird, but the average number is consid-
erably less, it being usually between ten and

86 The Partridge Family

fifteen. As a rule two broods are raised in a
season. The principal food embraces a variety
of seeds and berries. The various calls, the flight,
habits of feeding and roosting time, are identical
with those of C. vexg¢nzanus,and the Florida bird
behaves as well before dogs and affords as good
sport as the other.

As many Northerners have learned, Florida
Bob-white shooting is not what it used to be.
The game, small fellows have many busy foes,
including snakes and beasts and birds of prey.
These attack old and young, and the eggs; but
the worst enemy is the prowling pot-hunter, black
and white, who is apt to also be a trapper. This
kind of man knows no mercy, and as the birds
fall easy victims to the simplest form of snare
and traps, great numbers are annually destroyed
by such illegal methods. In addition to these
ravages, there is a vast amount of shooting done
by sportsmen from the North, who, being on holi-
day, naturally keep their guns as busy as possi-
ble. Better enforced game laws, and a persistent
pursuit of all law breakers and the natural enemies
of Bob-white, no doubt will in time restore the
proper head of birds. More than once, to the
writer's personal knowledge, have these southern
birds been brought north, to restock depleted
covers. Under the new climatic and food condi-
tions the type is speedily lost, and it is to be pre-

RRR OE PR HS

The Quail 87

sumed the strangers mate freely with native birds.
This I have not seen proved by the only true
test, z.c. breeding in confinement; but in at least
two instances males from Florida, which were
turned loose with northern bred females, appeared
to mate and breed within a field or so of the point
of liberation. Unfortunately, only the eye could
be used for verification, which is none too trust-
worthy a method; but as there is no great reason
for doubt, the eye probably was correct.

THE TEXAN BOB-WHITE

(C. v. texanus)

Only a trifle smaller than C. wzrgzxzanus, this
race is distinguished by its lighter color, and, in
the majority of males, by a tinge of cinnamon
beneath the black of the throat. To the eye, the
entire plumage presents a somewhat bleached
appearance, which in both sexes amounts to a
decided grayness. The female has a fainter cin-
namon mark, while the buff of throat and stripe
has a faded look, quite unlike the warmer tone
of her northern sister. The other trifling varia-
tions could hardly be detected by unscientific eyes
except by a careful comparison of specimens of
the two races side by side. The general habits
and calls of this race are the same as those of
C. virginianus ; but, possibly owing to a lack of
“education,” the bird is tamer, and only in much

88 The Partridge Family

disturbed districts does it ever show any of the
resourcefulness frequently so puzzling to the pur-
suer of the Bob-white of the North. Its range
extends over western and southern Texas, and
in Mexico from Guadalajara to Tamaulipas and
Nuevo Leon.

It is a common bird of the prairies and the Rio
Grande valley, but it is seldom if ever found at
a greater elevation than two thousand feet. Its
food consists of grain, the seeds of grasses and
wild growths, berries, and insects. When flushed,
it speeds away to the thickest available cover,
where it lies very close. The nest in the majority
of cases is built in a clump of close growing grass,
and, as frequently is the case in the North, it is
apt to be domed over by interwoven herbage.
The number of eggs laid by one bird varies be-
tween twelve and fifteen; when a greater num-
ber are found, it is more than probable that
two hens have deposited them. In all sporting
qualifications this bird is worthy of pursuit, espe-
cially in a region where there has been a fair
amount of shooting.

In addition to the usual enemies, human, furred,
and feathered, the Texan Bob-white has a deadly
foe in the rattlesnake, which is common through-
out its haunts. The terrestrial habit of the game
leaves it peculiarly open to attack by the coiled
peril, and it is no uncommon thing to find a snake

—

The Quail 89

showing from one to three or four conspicuous
swellings, which upon cutting the destroyer open
prove to be caused by dead quail.

THE MASKED BOB-WHITE
(C. ridgwayz)

Adult Male— Head, black mixed with chestnut on top; occiput,
nearly all chestnut ; hind neck, chestnut with a few white spots.
Upper part of back, chestnut slightly mottled with black, rest
of upper parts and wings closely barred with black and buff;
central tail feathers like the back, remainder bluish gray, with
slight buff mottlings near the tips. White line over the eye;
sides of face and throat, jet black; rest of under parts, uniform
cinnamon rufous; bill, black, legs and feet, pale brown.
Total length, 83 inches; wing, 43; tail, 23; tarsus, 11; bill, 3.
Geographical distribution— southern Arizona to Sonora,
Mexico.

The female closely resembles the female of the
Texan quail, but is paler, especially on the upper
parts, including the wings. The under parts
show trifling differences. The cinnamon band is
somewhat narrower and paler; the buff of the
throat is paler; but the bars on upper breast and
abdomen are darker and more sharply defined.
There is no noticeable difference in the dimen-
sions of the male and female. The conspicuous
black mask gives to this bird a most singu-
lar appearance, yet it is exceedingly handsome.
When seen in full sunlight the breast of the male
glows with a rich red which increases the
apparant plumpness of a very rounded model.

go The Partridge Family

It is not so abundant as its relatives. In Arizona,
it appears to be confined to a strip of territory
about thirty miles wide and a hundred miles in
length. It is found in the valley, on the table-
lands, and at a considerable elevation, the highest
recorded being six thousand feet in the Huachuca
Mountains. The call of the male is the familiar
“ Bob-white,” but the rallying call after a bevy
has been scattered shows a marked variation, it
sounding like /Yoo-we. The nest and eggs closely
resemble those of the northern species. The
food consists of insects, seeds in variety, and the
foliage of certain growths. To judge from its
fondness for elevations, this bird should be hardy
and worthy of introduction in portions of our
western wilderness where the climatic conditions
are not too severe. Were the species once well
established at such points, birds bred in the new
country might safely be taken farther north, and
the process repeated until perhaps at last we
should have a beautiful, and what should prove a
valuable, addition to the game list of the Northern
states. Some of those zealous sportsmen who
have spent and frequently wasted money in
attempts to introduce European game might per-
haps, with happier results, turn their attention to
the masked Bob-white.

The Partridges gl

THE PARTRIDGES

Subfamily — Odontophorine. Genus, Oreortyx (literally mountain
quail). Head with long, slender crest of two feathers, upright,
or inclined backward. Mountain dwellers. Plumage very
beautiful with sharply contrasting markings. The genus em-
braces one species and two subspecies, viz.: O. pictus, the
mountain partridge; O. p. plumiferus, the plumed partridge ;
and O. f. confinis, the San Pedro partridge.

Genus Callipepla, crest full and short. C. sgwamata, the scaled
partridge, and C. s. castaneigastra, the chestnut-bellied scaled
partridge.

Genus Lophortyx, crest of several overlapping feathers, recurved,
upright, widening from base to tip, distinct from crown feathers.
L. californicus, the California partridge; Z. c. vallicola, the
valley partridge ; and Z. gambelli, Gambel’s partridge.

Genus Cyrtony-x, crest full, soft, depressed. Species, C. montezuma,
the Massena partridge.

THE MOUNTAIN PARTRIDGE
(Oreortyx pictus)

Adult male —Top of head, sides of neck and breast, plumbeous ;
entire upper parts, upper tail-coverts and wings, deep olive-
brown, sometimes tinged with rufous; crest of lengthened
straight feathers, black; chin, white; entire throat, rich chest-
nut, bordered on the sides with black, and separated from the
bluish neck by a conspicuous white line; a white spot behind
the eye; flanks, deep chestnut, broadly barred with black and
white; middle of belly, white; under tail-coverts, black, the
feathers showing a central line of deep chestnut; tail, olive-
brown, mottled with black; inner edges of tertials broadly
marked with ochraceous white ; bill, black. Total length about
Io inches, wing, 52; tail, 34; tarsus, 13; bill, &. The adult
female closely resembles the male, the only noticeable differ-
ence being a somewhat shorter crest. Range, from the Bay of
San Francisco, California, through Oregon and Washington.
Introduced on Vancouver Island.

g2 The Partridge Family

This comparatively large and exceedingly hand-
some species is not highly esteemed by sportsmen
in general, owing to its true value not being well
understood. In certain portions of California, and
notably in the Willamette Valley, Oregon, when
abundant it affords capital sport, while upon the
table it is a delicacy not to be forgotten. Asa
rule, one, or at most two, broods are found on a
favorite ground, the birds seldom, if ever, flocking
like some of their relatives. O. fzctus prefers
moist districts and a generous rainfall. It is a
runner, and in comparison with Bob-white, by
no means so satisfactory a bird for dogs to work
on. After the first flush the covey is apt to
scatter widely and the beating up of single birds
is a slow and frequently a wearying task. On
the wing, its size and moderate speed render it
a rather easy mark.

The call of the male is suggestive of the crow-
ing of a young bantam, while the rallying cry of
scattered birds is not unlike the yelping of young
wild turkeys. The female is a watchful mother,
leading and calling her brood like a bantam
hen, and the young are shy, alert things, hiding
promptly and as closely as young Bob-whites
when the alarm note is sounded. The nest is a
grass-lined depression in the ground, well hidden
under some convenient shelter, frequently a log
or bush or a clump of grass. The eggs vary in

The Partridges 93

color from pale to rich buff, without spots. The
food of this species consists of various seeds and
insects, occasionally varied with grain. The bird,
however, is too shy and retiring in habit to ever
make itself at home on cultivated ground.

THE PLUMED PARTRIDGE
(Oreortyx pictus plumiferus)

To the ordinary observer this bird is exactly
like O. pictus, but the habits vary. Strangely
enough, the mountain partridge is less a fre-
quenter of high altitudes than this species, which
is frequently found at an elevation of between
eight and ten thousand feet. Its range includes
both sides of the Sierra Nevada, eastern Oregon,
and to the Panamint Mountains and Mount Ma-
gruder, Nevada; in California, from San Francisco
Bay to the Argus Mountains. It prefers the drier
country away from the coast. It, too, is a runner,
and an unsatisfactory object of pursuit. The nest,
eggs, young, habits during the breeding season,
and food are identical with those of the preceding
species ; in fact, the one marked difference les in
the preference of O. p. plumiferus for higher
ground. To the eye, the female is distinguishable
by her shorter crest.

94 _ The Partridge Family

THE SAN PEDRO PARTRIDGE
(O. p. confinis)

This bird was found by Mr. Anthony in the
San Pedro Mountains of Lower California, to
which range it is confined, and abundant at six
to ten thousand feet above sea level; during winter
it descends to lower ground. Only trifling varia-
tions in color distinguish it from O. p. plumzferus.
The eggs are pure creamy white.

THE SCALED PARTRIDGE
(Callipepla squamata)

Adult — Head, varying from brown to brownish gray; tip of crest,
white; throat, pale buff; hind neck, upper parts of back and
breast, bluish gray, each feather beautifully bordered with black,
the marks following a scalelike arrangement; scapulars, wings,
lower back, and rump, pale brown; upper tail-coverts and tail,
bluish gray; flanks, bluish gray, streaked with white; rest of
lower parts, pale buff, feathers margined with deep brown; bill,
black. Total length, 9} inches; wing, 5; tail, 4}; tarsus, 13.
In plumage the sexes are exactly alike. Range, western Texas
New Mexico, southern Arizona, Valley of Mexico.

This beautiful bird, also known as “blue quail,”
“white topknot,” “ white-crested quail,” and “ cac-
tus-quail,” is a frequenter of the mesas and a
lover of dry plateaus, where vegetation 1s sparse
and water not to be found. Here, amid sun-baked
cactus, yuccas, and thinly dispersed thorny growths,
it finds congenial haunts. Needless to say, such

The Partridges 95

ground is no place for good dogs, and even if the
canines could work, the habits of the scaled par-
tridge would not recommend it to sportsmen. It
is an inveterate runner, a shy, wary creature, ever
ready to go sprinting away from the first sugges-
tion of danger, and only taking wing when sur-
prised or closely pressed. When flushed, its sole
idea appears to be to get to earth again as speedily
as may be and to resume its tireless trotting. It
is found at an altitude of six to seven thousand
feet, and descends to the lowlands during severe
weather, but never appears to seek cover. Its
food consists of seeds, berries, buds, leaves, and
insects, though grain is greedily devoured if op-
portunity offers. Its alarm note is a peculiar,
low, hollow-sounding, and apparently somewhat
ventriloquial effort.

The pairs begin nesting in May, and two, and
sometimes three, broods are hatched during a
season. The nest is placed upon the ground
under any convenient shelter; the eggs are light
buff, freckled with brownish spots, and the aver-
age number about a dozen.

Were it not for its habit of running, this bird
might have proved a valuable addition to the
game list of the country, instead of being an
abomination to the sportsman, and a menace to
the subsequent usefulness of any dog unfortunate
enough to be sent after it.

96 The Partridge Family

THE CHESTNUT-BELLIED SCALED PARTRIDGE

(C. s. castaneigastra)

This is a subspecies of the preceding, distin-
guished by a more or less extensive patch of
chestnut on the belly. With this exception, its
habits, color, and markings so closely resemble
the other that further references are unnecessary.
It is found in the lower Rio Grande Valley, in
Texas, and in eastern Mexico. From the sport-
ing point of view, it has little to recommend it.

THE CALIFORNIA PARTRIDGE
(Lophortyx californicus)

Adult male — Forehead, buff; shafts of feathers, black; head, dark
chestnut, bordered anteriorly and on sides with black, followed
by a line of pure white; line from bill to eye, white; chin and
throat, jet-black, bordered all round from behind the eye with
white, margined with black; back of neck and upper part of
back, blue, the feathers margined with black anda minute blu-
ish white spot at tip; entire upper parts, deep smoke-brown ;
inner edge of tertials, buff, forming two conspicuous lines; pri-
maries, dark brown; breast, deep blue; belly, deep buff, the
feathers margined with black; flanks, smoke-brown, streaked
with white; abdomen, dark chestnut, the feathers with black
margins; vent and under tail-coverts deep buff, with broad
central streaks of dark brown; bill, black; crest, black, very
narrow at base, widening out and curving forward at the tip; all
the feathers (about six) enclosed between the webs of the ante-
rior plume. Total length of bird, 10 inches; wing, 44; tail, 4;
tarsus, 1}; bill, 4. The female has a shorter, chestnut-brown
crest; head, smoky gray, without white or black markings; no
chestnut patch on abdomen, and the scaly markings less pro-
nounced. Colors throughout more subdued. Range, Cali-
fornia coast region, as far north as Monterey. Introduced into
Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.

EE

The Partridges — 97

This handsome and sprightly species, while a
persistent runner, has been compelled to furnish
much excellent sport. It is a haunter of canons,
brushy slopes, and fields, and its pursuit may be
best described as continued and rapid skirmishing
by the sportsman afoot. Dogs are practically use-
less for work on this aggravating bird. I have
never seen it lie to a point—that is, after the
manner of Bob-white. In certain cover, scat-
tered birds occasionally do so, but a safe rule for
the man who owns a good dog is to leave that
dog at home when the quarry is the California
partridge.

In spite of many glowing descriptions of the
delights of skirmishing behind these nimble-footed
small rascals, I am firmly convinced that they are
greatly overdrawn, as I am that on foot, on the
wing, and on the board, Z. calzfornicus is un-
worthy of mention in comparison with Bob-white.
I am ready to admit that the bustling of these birds
from clump to clump is jolly good fun; that the
chase, for that is what it amounts to, has a charm
peculiar to itself; that the shooting of the bird is
fairly difficult, under the conditions, — but beyond
that I will not go. To rank this partridge, as
some have, with Bob-white, is an absurdity —
indeed, any comparison is an absurdity because
of the totally different conditions. Sometimes,
however, LZ. calzfornicus will behave as though he

98 The Partridge Family

had closely studied a page of Bob-white’s primer.
A personal memory of the covers of Vancouver
Island is all the more pleasant because of one day
during which the crested sprinters did not all get
away at the crack of the gun. A wise old dog
that had been brought north from California ren-
dered yeoman service by pointing bird after bird,
and for perhaps an hour two guns were busy at a
very fair imitation of genuine sport. This par-
ticular lot of birds certainly lay close, and when
flushed showed considerable speed, but taken on
their merits, judged by our experience, they fell
below the high standard of the eastern bird.
Other lots, found near by, ran persistently, and by
their behavior caused what may be termed much
strenuous speech.

Where the birds are plentiful, at the conclu-
sion of the breeding season the broods of a dis-
trict band together, thus forming great packs, of
which one may contain three or four hundred
individuals. This grouselike habit of packing is
common to most of the partridges, and, in spite
of noted authorities to the contrary, I am con-
vinced that the Bob-white (Colinus virginzanis)
also occasionally packs during the period of par-
tial migration. I do not mean that hundreds join
forces, but that from forty to sixty are now and
then found together, all matured birds, at the
opening of the season during the restless period.

The Partridges 99

The theory of two unusually large broods of that
year does not apply, as in that case the plumage
of the second lot would at once betray them. In
my opinion, three, and perhaps four, bevies some-
times drift together by accident of the partial
migration and fare forward, for the time being at
least, in packlike formation. Whether or no
such birds would permanently maintain their re-
lationship I am unable to say, as (unfortunately
for the cause of science!) whenever it has been
my good fortune to stumble upon such an assem-
blage, I have behaved in a fashion not at all cal-
culated to preserve pack formation, or even the
lives of individual members.

To return to LZ. calzfornicus. The great packs
remain together until the approach of the mating
season, which as a rule is some time in March;
then they break up, and the important business
of pairing and nesting begins. The birds make
little effort at concealing the nest, which is usu-
ally upon the ground beside a stump, or under a
bush, but rarely in a tree near the ground. The
eggs number about fifteen and are pale buff,
dotted or blotched with a darker tint. The
period of incubation is about three weeks, and
chicks run as soon as hatched. The male does
not share the task of hatching, but both parents
tend the young and warn them of approaching
danger. The chicks are very clever at hiding

100 The Partridge Family

even in scanty cover, resembling in their ways
the young of C. wirginzanus. Their food is
chiefly insects until they are well grown, when
seeds, berries, and various green growths are
added. Owing to the ravages of gunners and
trappers, the birds are now comparatively scarce
in many of their old-time strongholds.

THE VALLEY PARTRIDGE
(LZ. c. vallicola)

Only a very close observer could detect the
slight difference in plumage —the general paler
tone — which distinguishes this from the preced-
ing species. In habits, food, coloring, and mark-
ing of eggs, the variation, if any exist, is too
slight to require comment, while in speed of foot
and lack of those qualities which endear a bird
to sportsmen the two are worthy rivals. The
California partridge is a bird of the coast, while
this one is found in the interior of California,
Nevada, Oregon, and Utah, introduced in the
last named. It is hardy, and in spite of its name
is found on the mountains of Lower California at
an elevation of between eight and nine thousand
feet. Here, during the occasional very dry seasons,
it does not breed, the packs remaining unbroken
until more favorable conditions occur. This
curious fact, of course, means the non-production
of young for a season, which, in the opinion of

A DESERT RUNNER

(Gambel’s Partridge)

The Partridges 101

those who judge a bird by its sporting qualities,
is no great loss.

GAMBEL’S PARTRIDGE
(L. gambelt)

Adult male—Top of head and nape, bright chestnut; forehead,
black, grayish above the bill, and crossed by a narrow white
line between the eyes; a white stripe from behind eye to back
of ear-coverts, bordered with black; chin, throat, and side of
face, black, bordered all around with white; back and sides of
neck, lead color, each feather narrowly bordered with brownish
black; entire upper parts, grayish blue, darkest on upper tail-
coverts, where the feathers are faintly margined with white;
tail, pale blue; wings, like the back, but with a brownish tinge ;
the inner webs of the tertials broadly margined with white, and
the outer webs of those nearest the primaries narrowly mar-
gined with yellowish white, forming a horizontal bar when the
wing is closed; primaries, brown, grayish on the outer webs;
upper part of breast, pale blue; lower part to abdomen, bright
buff; flanks, dark chestnut, with a conspicuous white stripe
along the shaft ; abdomen, black, flanked by bright buff feathers,
with a white stripe in the centre, bordered with chestnut; vent
and under tail-coverts, pale buff with grayish brown central
stripe tinged with chestnut; an upright plume composed of five
or six black feathers, curving forward, and the webs turned
backward, each overlapping the one behind, rises from the fore-
head, sometimes bending over the bill; bill, black; feet and
legs, horn color. Total length, 10 inches; wing, 4}; tail, 43;
bill, 4; legs, 14.

Adult female — Upper parts, olive-green ; top of head, olive-brown ;
throat, dark buff, streaked with bluish gray; upper part of
breast, grayish blue; rest of under parts pale buff, the feathers
narrowly margined with blackish chestnut; flanks, chestnut,
with central white stripe; under tail-coverts, bronzy brown,
margined with pale buff; wings as in the male, the tertials less
conspicuously margined with white ; tail, purplish blue (Elliot).
The crest is short, straight, and brownish black. Range,

102 The Partridge Family

western Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona to San Bernardino
County, California, southern Utah, Nevada, and northwestern
Mexico.

ji Beautiful, hardy, prolific, were it not for its

detestable habit of running, this foppishly garbed
varlet would occupy a high place among our
upland game. But alas! like its near relatives,
this bird appears to be mainly occupied either in
running away from something, or in looking for
something to run from. It has an annoying
habit of sticking to the thorniest and most im-
pregnable cover available, the most rugged of
rocks and the steepest of slopes, and through it
all it runs —and keeps on running. It can fly
swiftly enough when in the humor, but the
humor seldom seizes it. Only a Christian of the
sternest stripe is fit to be trusted on the trail of
this nimble-footed little rascal. In its pursuit, a
system of rushing tactics is bound to be the most
profitable, and this can be successfully followed
only by a man who is strong, wiry, in good con-
dition, and thoroughly informed concerning the
habits of the game. Such a man very frequently
can make a fine bag, and, needless to say, he will
earn it. Those who have grown wise in the
pursuit of this bird, who have larded the lean
earth while rushing the open, charging the cover,
and storming the heights, know that if they can
get to close quarters with the pattering blue

The Partridges 103

army, sport worthy the name may follow. Scat-
tered birds sometimes lie sufficiently close to
allow of their being beaten up singly, or a brace
or so at a time. When this happens, the man
who has been sweating over an abomination of
hard going, may come in for a bit of very pretty
shooting. When flushed the birds move smartly,
keeping low, and usually curving away to one
side, when they offer a fair, small, and fast mark.
In addition to running, Gambel’s partridge will
not hesitate to tree in any convenient growth. °
It also has an exasperating habit of running to
the edge of a canon, flying down into it, and
climbing up the farther side, which means the
hardest of hard work for whoever would follow.
While apparently fond of the bottoms and lower
sides of canons, it may be found almost any-
where up toa height of eight thousand feet or
more, and never very far from water.

The birds pair during April. The nest shows
little skill, being a slight hollow roughly lined
with a few leaves or blades of grass, but it usu-
ally is well concealed. The eggs number from
twelve to fifteen, and are marked with various
shades of brown upon a pale buff ground, the
whole overcast with a purplish tinge. Instances
of the nest being placed in a tree or cactus some
feet above the ground are on record. The period
of incubation is about twenty-eight days. The

104 The Partridge Family

young run as soon as hatched, and in their habits
of hiding and taking advantage of the slightest
cover resemble the young of the Bob-white.
Frequently two broods are raised in a season.
The love call cannot well be represented in type;
the alarm note is a grating sound, while the signal
to decamp is an unmistakable gzzz.

THE MASSENA PARTRIDGE

(Crytonyx montezuma)

Adult male — Forehead, black, with white stripe passing upward
from nostril; top of head, pale brown, barred with black ; occi-
put, plain brown, feathers forming a short, thick crest; rest of
head, white, with a plumbeous stripe from angle of mouth, ex-
tending in a curved line beneath the ear, meeting a broader line
that crosses it at right angles, and extends from above the ear
to the lower margin of the black throat; a small triangular
curved black patch beneath the eye; the brown of the head is
separated from the white by a narrow black line; the white, on
side and fore neck, is margined beneath by a rather broad
black band; upper parts, reddish brown, barred with black, and
streaked with buff; secondaries, pale purplish gray, spotted with
black; primaries, dark brown, the outer webs spotted with
white; sides of breast and flanks, dark plumbeous, almost
black, spotted with white; line through middle of breast and
the belly, dark chestnut; rest of under parts and thighs, velvety
black; maxilla, black; mandible, black, with yellowish spot on
the side. Total length, 83 inches; wing, 5; tail, 21; tarsus, 1};
bill, along culmen, 3.

Adult female — General color, light pinkish cinnamon, upper parts
barred with black. Head, without black or white stripes, barred
on top and crest with black; throat, pinky white; a few black
spots on flanks and lower parts of chest; abdomen and anal
region, buff; secondaries, brownish black, barred with pale
cinnamon; primaries, dark brown, spotted with white on outer

The Partridges 105

webs; maxilla, black; mandible, pale horn color. Measure-
ments, same as male. The downy young are prettily marked
above with light and dark brown, spotted with a darker shade.
Throat, pale brown, shading into dull white below. Range,
western Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, table-lands of
Mexico.

A harlequin in markings and a fool in actions
might truthfully be said of this peculiar bird. Of
its two common names — “black-bellied” and
“fool quail” —the one aptly refers to an oddity
of its coloration, while the other has been earned
by its apparent lack of that cleverness which goes
far toward making the fame of some of its rela-
tives. To me, its rounded back, movements, and
the spotted sides are comically suggestive of a
small guinea fowl. It prefers high ground, and
in the mountain ranges as high as nine thousand
feet. In disposition and habits it differs broadly
from all members of the group, being seemingly
too confiding to suspect danger. It shows no ten-
dency to run, it does not pack, in fact in seldom-
visited regions each family keeps to itself and fol-
lows the even tenor of a placid life without concern
for the ways of the human destroyer. When
closely approached, it may move sufficiently to
escape being trodden upon, but fear seems foreign
to its gentle nature. As often as not it will stand
motionless while regarding the intruder with an
air of mild wonder. Or, possibly in obedience
to some instinctive trust in coloration, it will de-

106 The Partridge Family

liberately squat in plain view and remain motion-
less until struck with a whip or stick.

Not a very promising subject for sport, would
naturally be one’s first thought, yet there is more
in these queer small birds than is at first apparent.
Once flushed, they speed away at a great rate,
offering fair, but not too easy, marks. They will
then scatter and lie as close as the northern
birds. To beat them up one at a time is no poor
imitation of Bob-white shooting, and the use of
a good sixteen or twenty gauge would add zest
to the sport. It is to be hoped, as it probably
will prove, that a better acquaintance with the
ways of the shooting man will sharpen this bird’s
wits until it learns to take better care of itself.
As it is, its sole fault from the sporting stand-
point is an excess of faith in the generous ten-
dency of mankind.

The nest is a grass-lined hollow of the ground,
and usually contains about ten brilliantly white
eggs. It is commonly found in a clump of grass,
or under a shrub, and as a rule well concealed.

EAE GROUSE PAMIIEY

Sub-family Zetraonine, which includes all grouse. The American
species are: the ruffed grouse, the dusky grouse, the spruce-
grouse, the pinnated grouse, or prairie-chicken, the sharp-
tailed grouse, the cock-of-the-plains, and the ptarmigan.

Genus Bonasa — Head crested, rudimentary air-sac covered by a tuft
of broad, soft, ghossy feathers; tail broad, long, rounded, fan-
shaped ; legs bare from heel. The ruffed grouse, 2. usmbellus ;
Sabine’s grouse, B. w. sabinz ; the Canadian ruffed grouse, ZB. w.
togata, and the gray ruffed grouse, B. . umbelloides.

Genus Dendragapus — Head slightly crested; tail long, square at
tip; air-sacs on neck. The dusky grouse, D. obscurus; the
sooty grouse, D. 0. fuliginosus; Richardson’s grouse, D. o.
vichardsont.

Genus Canachites — Head without crest ; tail moderately long, nearly
square at tip; no air-sacs on neck. The Canada grouse, C.
canadensis, and the Franklin’s grouse, C. franklinz.

Genus 7ympanuchus — Head crested; winglike tufts above air-sacs
on neck; tail short, rounded. The pinnated grouse, 7. amer-
zcanus; heath-hen, 7. cufido; lesser prairie-hen, 7. pallidt-
cinctus ; and Attwater’s prairie-hen, 7. a. attwateri.

Genus Pedioecetes — Head slightly crested; no winglike tufts above
air-sacs ; tail pointed. The sharp-tailed grouse, P. phastanellus ;
the Columbian sharp-tailed grouse, P. p. columbianus, and the
prairie sharp-tailed grouse, P. p. campestris.

Genus Centrocercus — No crest; air-sacs very large; tail very long,
of narrow, stiff feathers; male much larger than female. The
cock-of-the-plains (sage-cock), C. urophasianus. -

Genus Lagopus — No crest; tarsi and toes densely feathered ; tail
medium length, slightly rounded; plumage turning white in
winter. The willow-ptarmigan, Z. /agopus; Allen’s ptarmigan,
L. l. allent; rock-ptarmigan, ZL. rupestr7s; Reinhardt’s ptarmi-
gan, L. r. reinhardti ; Welch’s ptarmigan, L. 7. welcht; Nel-

107

108 The Grouse Family

son’s ptarmigan, ZL. 7. nelson¢; Turner’s ptarmigan, Z. 7.
atkensts ; Townsend’s ptarmigan, LZ. 7. townsend? ; Evermann’s
ptarmigan, ZL. evermanni; and the white-tailed ptarmigan, Z.
leucurus.

THE RUFFED GROUSE

(Bonasa umbellus)

Adult male— Upper parts varied with yellowish brown and gray,
barred on head, neck, and upper part of back and wings, with
black and rufous; lower part of back and rump, gray, inter-
spersed with dark red, and ovate spots of pale buff, surrounded
with black; scapulars and wing-coverts conspicuously streaked
with buffy white ; primaries, grayish brown, outer webs barred with
creamy white; upper tail-coverts, gray, mottled and barred with
black; on sides of neck, tufts of broad, lengthened feathers,
black, tipped with light brown and shot with metallic lustre ;
throat, buff, faintly barred with brown; lower parts, buff on
chest, shading to white below, barred with brown; under tail-
coverts, buff, barred with dark brown and with a V-shaped
white mark at tip; tail, gray, or yellowish brown; sometimes
rusty, mottled with black and crossed by irregular buff bands,
bordered above by black, and a broad, subterminal black band
bordered above and below with gray, mottled with black, the
upper gray bar bordered above with a narrow black bar; legs,
feathered to middle of tarsus; maxilla, black; mandible, horn
color. Total length, about 16 inches; wing, 7}; tail, 6.

The female closely resembles the male, but is a trifle smaller and
has the neck-tufts smaller— frequently is without them. The
downy young have the upper parts chestnut, a black line from
back of eye, across ear-coverts ; under parts, light buff. Range
—eastern United States and southern Canada, from Massachu-
setts to northern Georgia, Mississippi, and Arkansas, westward
to the Dakotas.

While a stanch supporter of Bob-white’s claim
to the premier position among upland game, the
writer pleads guilty to a genuine love for the

The Ruffed Grouse 109

ruffed grouse. Not that the bird has ever held
out any marked inducement, or in any way what-
ever encouraged a closer relationship, but rather
because of the number and infinite variety of the
difficulties which have marked the progress, or
lack of progress, of the suit. There is an old say-
ing that “ Blessings brighten when they take their
flight.” If this holds good of ruffed grouse, the
writer gravely suspects that some of his lost grouse
probably by now are too incandescent for the
naked eye.

Usually a haunter of the most difficult country
and the densest cover, this bird can be success-
fully pursued only by the man who can combine
with rapid, accurate shooting a quick perception
and ready resource. The grouse is wily, especially
in much disturbed covers, and the conditions
may vary with every shot. The man who can
average half his birds, taking them as they flush,
is entitled to high rank even among the best of
company. The writer has shot ruffed grouse in
most of the good sections of that tremendous
expanse of country which extends from ocean to
ocean, from the latitude of northern Pennsylvania
to north of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Within this
huge belt is to be found the cream of the shoot-
ing, and nowhere are there easy birds — that 1s,
after they once take wing in earnest. There, of
course, are uneducated grouse in remote corners.

110 The Grouse Family

Some of these birds may betray a confiding trust
which may astonish a tenderfoot, but once they
realize their mistake and turn on the full voltage,
they go like all possessed.

The habits of the grouse vary somewhat in
different localities, but as a general rule it is to
be found in what is termed heavy cover, usually
another name for the worst there is in that partic-
ular section. A snarl of thickets, swamps, dense
second growth, brier patches, heavy woods, beech
ridges, dark ravines, forested hill and mountain
sides, the brushy banks of streams—each and
all find favor with the strong, swift fliers, and right
well do they know how to make the most of every
protective feature of their chosen ground.

The love-making of the grouse is precisely
what might be expected of so game and vigorous
a fellow. He chooses some spot which suits his
fancy, and from it sends notice to all males and
females within hearing that he is open to engage-
ment —either way, love or war, or both. He
usually gets both. The challenge is not a vocal
effort, but the well-known drumming, a most
peculiar sound.

Perhaps nothing connected with the ways of
game birds has caused more discussion in and
out of print, or more bitter controversies, than this
same drumming. One of the chief causes of the
misunderstanding was the ignorance of the men

The Ruffed Grouse i

most interested —the sportsmen. Not so long
ago these men, as a class, knew comparatively
little about the habits of their favorite game dur-
ing the close season. They hunted and shot, and
while so doing naturally familiarized themselves
with the ways of the quarry during the open
season. That knowledge was necessary, for it
enabled them to get the game; but further than
that few of them cared to go. The sportsmen-
naturalists, so numerous to-day, were then few
and far apart—it was to kill, not to combine
entertaining study with killing in moderation.
Hence, when untrained eyes did not know how
to look, they misread many of the signs. They
saw the male grouse upon his favorite drumming-
log, saw him flap his wings, heard the drumming,
and jumped to the conclusion that the grouse got
upon a log because he wanted to thump it with
his wings and so produce the sound. It never
occurred to them that a bird’s wings striking a log
could not produce the sound, or that wings so
used would of necessity speedily wear out, or at
least show plain evidence of hard usage. So they
told about seeing grouse beat logs with their wings,
and their listeners, or readers, not knowing any
better, accepted the stories.

The fact is that the drumming grouse beats
only the air and possibly his own body with his
wings. Variations of the habit are common

112 The Grouse Family

among gallinaceous birds. The wing-clapping of
the domestic cock is too well known to require
comment. The gobbler, wild and tame, and the
peacock make a rustling with the wings. The
pheasant makes a peculiar whirring; pigeons, a
vigorous clapping. If any one will pass his hand
over a tame gobbler engaged in strutting, he will
at once notice that the bird feels as though he
were full of air. Parts of him are. In the re-
gion of the crop, and along the sides under the
wings, he feels like a big, feathery bladder. Startle
him, or slap him smartly, and he may let the air
out through his mouth with a rush. If he be suf-
ficiently tame to stand it, pat him smartly in rapid
succession with the open hands, and the sound
will be a muffled beating, not at all unlike the
drumming of the grouse. A well-directed boot
against a foot-ball produces a somewhat similar
thump, and the writer has drummed no bad imita-
tion of it upon a well-filled punching-bag.

To stalk and closely approach a drumming
grouse is a comparatively easy task, provided the
stalker move cautiously until reasonably near, and
then stirs only while the drummer is in action.
A good glass, which, by the way, every intelligent
observer should carry, will reveal some interesting
facts. The bird may drum upon a log — the
favorite place — or a stump, a mossy stone, an
ant-hill, or even upon level ground, — notes care-

The Ruffed Grouse 113

fully made include all of these. To the drum-
ming-place the bird will return day after day,
sometimes for more than one season. Most coun-
try boys know where is a drumming-log.

When inclined to drum, the male mounts the
log, or whatever it may be, and for a time moves
to and fro, peering this way and that and ap-
parently listening intently. While so doing his
plumage presents a loosely ruffled appearance,
his wings half-trailing, his tail half-spread. Pres-
ently he puffs himself up, throws his head far back,
elevates his beautiful fan of a tail and spreads it
to the complete semicircle. He is now in the
pose of a strutting gobbler, or peacock, and he
looks somewhat like a brown fantail pigeon. The
tufts on his neck are elevated and spread, the
wings are trailing, and he struts, sometimes with
a quick forward movement like a gobbler, occa-
sionally merely turning this way and that, like
a peacock, this whenever what he is on affords
scant room for evolutions. Next, the head is
thrust forward to the full length of the neck, the
tail is partially closed and lowered almost to the
level of the back, and he assumes the position of
a cock upon a fence the instant before starting to
crow. Then the wing-beats begin —at first slow
and measured, then quicker and quicker until the
separate beats are lost, thus: Buff buff
buff buff —buff— buff — buff —buff-burr-r-r-r!

joi The Grouse Family

The sound is peculiar, difficult to describe and
as difficult to locate, for it unquestionably has
great ventriloquial power. Sometimes it isstrongly
suggestive of low, distant thunder, especially when
the opening beats have not been caught. Again
it is like the deep, muffled roll of a drum, or the
sound of a distant carriage rapidly driven over
a short wooden bridge. The writer has more
than once been fooled by the sound of wheels
coming through the woods. At the conclusion
of the effort the bird straightens to his full height
and appears to listen for a reply. Should there
be no response, he may repeat his performance an
indefinite number of times.

Some scientists have declared that all the bird’s
peering about is merely a sharp lookout for the
expected female. I will go farther and say that
it is of threefold purport —z.e. to locate the fe-
male, an approaching rival, or a skulking peril.
While in the act of drumming, the bird appears
to be oblivious to everything but its own passion.
This is why it can be stalked. The instant the
drumming ceases the bird seems to realize that it
has been taking chances, so it carefully scrutinizes
every yard of its surroundings. Let the stalker
then make the slightest move and there will be
no more drumming for some time. A grouse
flushed directly from the drumming-place is apt
to forsake it altogether. My theory is that the

The Ruffed Grouse 115

grouse thoroughly understands the situation;
that while he hopes to see an admiring hen, or
hens, — for he’s a regular Turk, — he knows he
may see a man, or a lynx, or a fox, or some other
cold-hearted brute. Or, worse yet, one or other
may be there and he not see quite soon enough!
Meanwhile, the hen, or hens, have been listening
to the drumming and admiring the performer.
They are somewhat like some larger hens, inas-
much as a bold front compels their admiration ;
also, because they know that a shy, timorous,
mind-all-ready-made-up-but-it’s-so-sudden sort of a
policy is the deadliest. So, being wise virgins
possessed of a few shares of standard oil, they’re
in no great hurry. Eventually he weds the lot,
if there be a lot, conducts a harem for a time —
then deserts them, one and all.

Should the response to the drummer’s effort
be a male, there speedily is trouble. The old,
old struggle for the survival of the fittest is —
well — fit! They go together with all the dash
and spirit one would expect of such game, strong
fellows, and frequently the battle is furious and
prolonged. Out of a maelstrom of whirling fight,
one presently emerges, minus some blood and
feathers, but plus some useful knowledge, and
the subsequent proceedings in that woody Eden
interest him no more.

The duties of choosing a site for the nest,

116 The Grouse Family

attending to the slight construction thereof, and
hatching the eggs, devolves upon the female.
There is some difference of opinion about this,
but I am convinced that, as a rule, the male
deserts his mate so soon as the breeding season
is over. It may be that when, as sometimes
happens, there are but one male and one female
in a certain cover, they remain together, but I
have yet to flush two old birds with a brood of
chicks. The nest usually is well concealed, but
there are exceptions to this. It may be under a
log or an overhanging rock, between the roots of
a stump, or tree, in a thicket, a fallen top, under
a brush-pile, or exposed in an open spot. As an
architect the grouse has no claim to distinction;
a slight hollow scratched in the ground and
roughly lined with leaves, grass, or pine needles,
is all it requires. The eggs vary through shades
of buff with brown spots. The number ranges
from eight to about a dozen. The period of in-
cubation begins about the first of May and lasts
nearly four weeks. The hen sticks very close to
the nest, and if driven away seldom goes farther
than is absolutely necessary for her own safety.
The young run as soon as the down on them is
dry. They are very active and able to hide in
the merest trifle of cover.

The hen grouse is a model mother. Until
the young are sufficiently strong to roost upon

The Ruffed Grouse 117

branches, she covers them as a domestic hen
covers her chicks. Young grouse, like young
turkeys, cannot stand a wetting; this the mother
knows, and she is careful not to lead them through
wet cover. At the first sign of rain she calls them
up, never herself heeding a liberal spattering so
long as the chicks are dry under her. Uptoa
certain age young grouse are the most delicate of
all game, and, could the figures be obtained, it is
extremely likely they would show a loss of at
least one-third of the young before they had
attained the size of quail. This, of course, tak-
ing the average for a number of seasons. Five
consecutive favorable seasons, ze. dry from the
hatching time till the chicks are past the critical
stage, would mean a grand lot of birds. The
conditions reversed would surely mean a marked
scarcity. There is a species of tick which plays
the mischief; and I suspect that a disease closely
akin to the ‘roup which occasionally prevails
among young poultry is accountable for a deal
of the losses. As is true of many other birds,
when once the grouse has run the gauntlet of
infantile disorders, it becomes as hardy and
rugged a bird as can be found. The food con-
sists of “mast,” many sorts of wild berries, wild
grapes, the foliage of wintergreen, buttercups,
partridge-berry, clover, and other growths, grass-
hoppers, crickets, and, no doubt, other insects.

118 The Grouse Family

During winter the principal food is the buds of
birch and other trees. Not infrequently it resorts
to the leaves of the alder, which impart to the
flesh a pronounced bitter taste. Birds so fed and
left long undrawn are apt to prove poisonous to
persons eating freely of them. The young feed
upon insects and various tender growths.

When a brood is half grown it changes its
roosting habit and takes to the trees, those of
medium size and overgrown with grape-vines
being most favored. About this time, too, the
young acquire the treeing habit, and ever after,
when flushed by a dog, they are apt to tree. The
writer had a peculiar experience with a brood
about the size of quail. He was fishing, and had
for a comrade a young pointer dog, all liver color.
This pup, as pups will, found fishing not suffi-
ciently strenuous to hold his attention for long,
so to help pass time he started a lone-hand raid
of an adjacent thicket. A sudden tremendous
uproar attracted my attention, and, to my aston-
ishment, I saw an old hen grouse vigorously be-
laboring the bewildered pup with her wings and
giving him a piece of her mind in a torrent of
cacklings, such as I had never dreamed a grouse
capable of uttering. The poor pup, after first
trying to make a point, and then to grab her,
finally bolted in dismay. She followed him for
about a dozen yards, beating him about the rump

The Ruffed Grouse 11g

with her wings, which kept up a thunderous
whirring. She acted exactly like a wrathful old
fowl, and the pup like a condemned fool. The
utter discomfiture of the pup, the abruptness of
the interruption, and the astounding valor of the
old hen gave me temporary paresis, for, in trying
to see a little more, I forgot where I was, stepped
off my rock, and brought up in about four feet
of ice-cold water.

To first swear, then secure the pup and lie low
for developments, was a natural sequence. The
young were in the trees, several of them visible
after a cautious scrutiny, and in about ten min-
utes there sounded a low, musical chirruping very
like the sound emitted by a red squirrel between
the coughing, sputtering notes. Presently one
and another of the young responded with cries
like those of very young turkeys; then one after
another fluttered down and ran to their anxious
mother.

An interesting query is, for what did the
mother mistake the dog? for I am convinced
that she had no idea what he was. Possibly she
took him for a fox, or a wolf, for surely her in-
stinct would have warned her not to try such
tactics with one of the cat kind, any of which
almost certainly would have destroyed her with
one sweep of a nimble paw. A possible solution
is that she did not at all understand the silent,

120 The Grouse Family

halting, uniformly colored enemy, and bravely
took the chances of a desperate bluff. This inci-
dent is one of the most striking illustrations of
the devotion of the hen which the writer can
recall. The usual course of the mother bird is
to throw herself in the path of the intruder, and,
by simulating lameness, to draw him after her
and away from the hiding chicks. This pretty
deceit is one of the most touching sights which
reward the observant bird-lover.

The treeing “habit “oi “the — erouse, once wa
great protection to it, is now its bane. This is
an interesting point, as it strikingly illustrates
the folly of sticking to old-fashioned methods
after improvements have been introduced, and
also that folly of follies— underestimating the
ability of one’s opponent. A®ons on zons ago
the grouse developed the trick of taking to a
tree to avoid peril terrestrial, and no doubt it
considered itself a very smart bird. At that time,
strangely enough, its two winning cards in the
game of life and death were taking to a tree and
leaving a tree. Being a bud-eater at certain sea-
sons, the grouse naturally sought the trees for
food. Among the branches it was comparatively
safe from quadrupeds, although some of its foes
were clever climbers. But there were others, —
the birds of prey, — and to avoid these the grouse
went back to earth. So it played its game of

The Ruffed Grouse 121

going to the trees to escape its four-footed foes,
and dropping to the rocks and brush to baffle
winged ones, and this must have answered very
well for a long time, for the grouse flourished
and waxed fat. His one human foe was then an
Indian, clever with bow and arrow and snares;
but still the treeing trick was useful, for good
arrows were easily lost if shot upward among
trees; the grouse was comparatively small game,
while an Indian hated to make arrows as he hated
labor in any form. But the old-fashioned firearm
eventually became common, and at once the
grouse’s erstwhile strong point became its deadly
weakness.

No doubt birds that were once wounded in
trees learned to trust to their wings when next
man approached, for to-day the grouse, except in
remote corners, will seldom tree unless the man
be accompanied by a dog. A grouse educated
on modern principles —z.e. one that has enjoyed
the questionable advantage of feeling lead driven
through some part of it — seldom offers a second
fair chance; but all are not so wise. To most
of them the dog is merely the old four-footed
peril — a foxlike creature unable to climb, against
which a tree is an absolute safeguard. Naturally
enough the first impulse is to at once take the
oft-tried remedy for a well-understood evil. Hence
we see birds tree above the dog and remain calmly

122 The Grouse Family

looking down at the intruder, and even moving
upon the limbs as though only slightly interested
in the whole business. But let the man follow
the dog, and a change takes place. One of two
things happens—either the grouse leave the
tree, or they stretch to their full height and re-
main bolt upright and perfectly motionless.
When so posed only an experienced eye can
readily detect them, for they would easily pass
for so many decayed and broken stubs. Even
the skilled sportsman, who knows this habit of
the bird, and who is warned by the actions of the
dog that the game is somewhere in a tree imme-
diately above, frequently has difficulty in locating
the quarry. His safest plan is first to let his eye
follow the trunk to the top, as the probability is
that the game will be perched near the trunk. If
this fails, the next thing is to begin at the lowest
limb and examine it from the trunk to the tip,
and repeat the process limb after hmb. This, of
course, must eventually locate the bird; but the
sportsman will do well to keep his gun ready for
swift action. Strange as it may appear, the bird
seems to know the instant it is observed; then it
at once takes wing. A flushed grouse is apt to
fly straight away from the rising-point and in
ordinary woods not very far. Should the bird
keep low, the chances are that it will pitch upon
the ground; but if the last view of it shows a

The Ruffed Grouse 123

raising of the line of flight, it probably means
that the bird has gone to a tree. A thorough
scrutiny of the trees about where the bird dis-
appeared is then worth while.

The question of the propriety of shooting a
treed grouse must be left to the discretion and
sportsmanship of the individual in pursuit. The
writer is a thorough believer in pure sport. for
sport’s sake; he prides himself upon having a
clean record from boyhood onward, and he
frankly admits having shot many a treed grouse,
and this after he was considered a very fair shot.
While caring nothing for the dead bird except as
a dainty fare for himself, or a gift to a friend, he
never hesitates over trimming the head off a
perching bird whenever, in his judgment, the
conditions forbid the hope of anything like a fair
flying shot. So long as the nature of the cover
offers a reasonably open field, true sportmanship
would insist upon the bird being given perhaps a
bit the best of the odds; otherwise, it is merely
a problem of how badly one needs that particular
grouse. The same thing will apply to a bird seen
running — by the way, none too easy a proposition.
Very often in thickets such shots are quite pardon-
able. Those who care for the small rifle may find
pleasure in using it on treed birds; yet it is ques-
tionable if such shooting is true sport, for even
an ordinary performer would seldom fail at such

124 The Grouse Family

short range. He will, of course, only aim at the
head or neck, for any duffer might hit the big
body and spoil meat.

Apropos of the rifle, two peculiar shots are
worth mentioning. A party of us were in the
Mattawa moose country. The particular day was
Sunday, and the camp rule was the only right
one. We were lounging about on the moss, and
I happened to be oiling a Winchester 45-90.
Suddenly the guide pointed to a big hemlock
about fifty yards away and remarked: “See the
sunlight on that fur—it’s a marten.” Amid the
blackness of the centre of the hemlock was a sin-
gle splash of light, and it glowed upon what
appeared to be red fur.

“And the Sabbath law is?” I asked the
judge.

“To plug all martens every day —to shoot
from where you sit, and to allow the court to
shoot one deer in the water if you miss. So
mote it be!” was his Honor’s decision.

At the report the marten shook loose about a
peck of feathers, and went roaring away to a
near-by ravine, shedding more feathers every yard.
Before it reached cover the wings were set, and
it slanted down at an amazing pace.

The guide chased after, while we stared at each
other, and the court muttered an astonished

“Well — I'll — be —d !” Soon the guide

The Ruffed Grouse 125

came back with a bobtailed grouse, which he
passed round for inspection. The big ball had
hit it squarely in the rump, carrying away inches of
the back and most of the intestines; the legs hung
by mere shreds of skin and flesh, yet the bird had
flown fully twenty yards, and finished its trip upon
dead, set wings.

The other shot was different, but with the same
rifle, which, by the way, had a tinkered stock with
a shotgun plate for quick work. The party had
insisted upon one day’s hounding, and knowing
my penchant for still hunting, had sent me off to
a small island, a mere rock, where, as the judge
said, “It would be good and still all day.” The
chances were a thousand to one against any deer
coming to that rock, but they had been known to
take that course, so there was need of a guard.
For hours there was nothing doing. The dogs
were clanging through the woods far to the east-
ward, while a lazy man lay and stared at the
dreamy landscape, or played with the wintergreen
which matted his couch.

At last something did come—a big grouse,
presumably after wintergreen. He lit on a short
stub, at once saw the enemy, and promptly drew
himself up and stiffened. He never moved while
the rifle was brought to the ready, then he sud-
denly discovered gold quartz, and set off to file
his claim, or something. He went as only a

126 The Grouse Family

scared grouse a quarter of a mile from cover can
go, and the ball caught him fair in the back when
he had travelled about forty yards. Then the
man behind the gun stared at the bird in the
water, and wondered why Fate had seen fit to
weave that particular mesh, why the ball had hap-
pened to touch the mark, and why there was more
genuine satisfaction over the kill than there would
have been had the mark been a buck.

It sometimes appears as though the grouse yet
preserved a trace of an old-time migratory instinct
which impels it about mid-autumn to wander far
from its usual haunts. A paragraph referring to
the capture or sight of a live bird in the centre of
some large town or city may be found in many a
paper, and always about the end of September or
early in October. Birds which have struck the
wires above busy streets are not unfrequently
picked up, and these things go to show that some
grouse are given to taking long night flights.
The writer’s old home lies within the limits of a
small city, and fully a mile and a half from the
nearest possible grouse cover, yet he has several
times seen, and more than once shot, grouse (each
time a lone bird) in his garden. Once a big cock
smashed through a pane of glass and took refuge
under a parlor sofa. There were many specimens
of stuffed game in that room, and if the glass-
smashing bird yearned for a place among the

The Ruffed Grouse 127

chosen, he had his desire. One of the grouse in
that collection, an unusually large and very brown
specimen, has large ruffs of a lightish chocolate
color instead of the usual black.

Before leaving the question of partial migration,
a reference to some peculiar encounters with
grouse in town may not be out of place. Just
before the writer bade farewell to his “ teens,” he
and his chosen comrades played ball enthusiasti-
cally and fairly well. The best all-round player
was a small, wiry chap whose specialty was catch-
ing. Upon wet days the chimney swifts used to
skim low through the streets and one time this
chap made a fair catch of one. The shock killed
the swift, but that didn’t matter. Shortly after
the writer also caught a swift and broke its neck
in so doing. That didn’t matter either; but what
did matter was that two young prigs went strut-
ting about as the great and only bird-catchers, and
naturally as rivals. Some time after the writer
had occasion to interview his rival and he found
him sunning himself on the roof of a shed. As
the conversation opened, something whizzed above
the roof, the rival made a leap and a grab, and
landed on his head in a manure-pile. Clutched
in his fist was a big piece of skin and a lot of
feathers which clearly belonged to a ruffed
grouse — the poor bird buzzed on and in its fright
darted into a shed, where it was later found and

128 The Grouse Family

mercifully despatched. That settled the rivalry.
Anybody who could grab ruffed grouse in this
parabolic manner and land soft, clearly outclassed
the writer, and the citizens hardened their hearts
against him amid revilings. It was indeed a
bitter dose to swallow! Years later, when the
writer had whiskers, he was turning a corner in
the same town, when something like a brown
shell came humming by. A naturally quick hand
had gained speed from sparring, and out it flashed.
There was an amazing shock, but it closed tightly
on a grouse, and it made the bones crack before
it let go too!

R-e-v-e-n-g-e! And hey for the rival, at last out-
done! That worthy examined the bird, demanded
the story of its capture, listened attentively,
spat, returned the bird, spat again, and crisply
remarked: “Yer a liar! I sold that bird to
Blank four days ago!”

Some fellows are simply insufferable!

After the young grouse have reached maturity,
they will remain with the mother throughout the
winter unless too much harassed. The old
males join the broods late in the fall, and each lot
selects its winter range. Before the severe cold
and deep snow they are apt to favor high-lying
cover, growths of beeches, to which the leaves
cling long, brier patches, and brushy ground. At

The Ruffed Grouse 129

this time they frequently roost in the trees,
especially in vine-encumbered ones. After the
winter has fairly set in and the snow becomes
deep, most of the birds retire to lowlands, such as
heavily timbered swamps and extensive growths
of tall saplings. From these sanctuaries they
forage the surrounding more open country, speed-
ing back to the heavier cover when alarmed. In
regions of heavy snow, the birds creep into low,
snug growths and often allow themselves to be
deeply covered. They also never hesitate over
plunging into a drift and burrowing under to the
warmest of quarters. The track and the holes
made by the bird entering and leaving the snow
have been noted by most of the sportsmen who
go afield very late in the season. It has been
claimed that many grouse fall victims to crust, as
do the quail. Proof of this I have never seen in
spite of much winter shooting, but I have
repeatedly seen the holes in firm crust through
which the grouse had passed to freedom. It may
be that my experience has been an exceptional
one, but I have never found a dead grouse in the
woods that had not been either snared or shot.
The flight of a big, strong grouse is the per-
sonification of headlong dash with power. It
rises with a sudden, thunderous whirring which
never fails to stir the very cockles of a veteran’s
heart, and which plays the deuce with the nerves

130 The Grouse Family

of a novice. There is no drag or hesitancy about
it, the bird gets to top speed within a few yards,
and where there is thick cover —characteristic
grouse cover—he plunges for the thickest of it
like a cannon-ball. One might be pardoned for
marvelling how the bird manages to escape colli-
sions with close-standing trunks or heavy boughs,
but it does, and whizzes away with a neatness and
despatch positively wonderful to behold. Yet,
fast as it goes, the bird has perfect control over
its course, and never forgets to take advantage of
the first convenient shelter. It will whisk behind
the nearest trunk and then dart away with that
trunk exactly in a line between itself and the gun.
Grouse unnumbered have been saved by this
clever trick, and tons of shot have been stopped
too soon by the saving trees. This habit of dodg-
ing behind shot-proof obstacles is peculiar to the
ruffed grouse; whether it be the result of educa-
tion, or is purely instinctive, is an open question.
Whichever it be, it frequently is possible to out-
manceuvre it by going up to the flush a bit to one
side of the pointing dog, instead of directly in
his rear as most men do. The partial flanking
movement, in the majority of instances, will
insure a more or less quartering shot—a bit
more difficult than a straightaway drive, but less
liable to interference.

That the shooting of this bird is difficult goes

The Ruffed Grouse 131

without saying, yet the fault of the great majority
of misses lies with the shooter. The trouble
with most men is that they shoot too quick.
The grouse has a knack of springing precisely
when and where he is not expected. This,
coupled with the roaring flush, shakes any except
the service-steadied nerve —usual result, some-
thing closely akin to blind snap-shooting. But
the true cause of perhaps half the misses is
undershooting. In most cases the bird is rising
and rushing forward at the same time; the broad
tail with its conspicuous black band catches the
eye, and the gun is held on the tail — which
means just under the bird, instead of where it
should be, a couple of inches or more above the
rising back. The tail, too, helps a man to miss
squarely crossing shots by increasing the appar-
ent length of the bird. This causes one to think
he is centring the bird, when in reality he is
centring the length of the mark from bill to tail-
tip. This means that he is covering the after
portion of the body, when he should be slightly
ahead of the region of the crop. This difference
of several inches actual measurement is enough
to place the bird without the deadly zone of the
charge and within the zone of scattered pellets,
even at very short range. Sportsmen who have
tried the pheasants of Great Britain, or the varie-
ties of the pheasant which have been acclimatized

132 The Grouse Family

in this country, understand how much a conspic-
uous tail may mislead an eye trained to accuracy
on short-tailed game. The writer is a stanch
believer in the value of holding well ahead of all
angling and crossing game of whatever species.
Not one in one hundred is missed through over-
leading, for even when the gun is inches too far
in advance, a single diverging pellet may yet
prove deadly, because, if it touches any part of
the quarry, that part is apt to be of the head, the
neck, the region of the heart, or a wing.

So many writers have referred to the noisy
flush of the ruffed grouse, that the belief is
prevalent that the bird always rises upon loud-
sounding pinions. This is erroneous. When
unalarmed, the bird rises without any noticeable
whirring.

SOME GLIMPSES OF GROUSING

The best ruffed grouse shooting the writer has
enjoyed has been in the grand covers of Wiscon-
sin, Michigan, and western Ontario, the merits
of the grounds ranking in order as named. The
most difficult sport was in the Red_ River Valley,
the mighty growths of British Columbia, and the
mountains of Pennsylvania. Let us take a peep
at each in turn.

Imagine a long, easy, sun-kissed slope in the
most beautiful section of the magnificent “ Badger

Some Glimpses of Grousing 133

state’ — time mid-afternoon. Half of this slope is
gleaming stubble which rolls in sleepy, golden
billows to a strand of dull crimsons and cooling
bronze, where the waist-high scrub-oaks and
briers and dwarf hazels weave together, glowing
like some huge rare rug of Orient spread over
the everlasting hills. Beyond all this, stern
ramparts of grim gray stone, hearsed with som-
bre pines, beneath which trail heavy crimson ban-
ners of creepers, as though flung earthward in
grief for the passing glory of the year. Misting
it all, softening where too harsh, transforming
dusk corridors into silvery reaches of immeasur-
able length, spreads the magic of Indian sum-
* mer, as though Autumn had flung afar a net of
shimmering gossamer in a playful attempt to
bind captive each giant of rock and pine.

It is indeed a pretty picture, but the prettiest
bit of all is in the foreground. It is a group
which well might startle those only acquainted
with the dignities of metropolitan life and its
surroundings. Three figures compose the group,
and they are arranged like a wedge. The thin
edge of the wedge has been inserted into some of
the most picturesque fragments of North Amer-
ica —and driven home afterward. It is a dog —
a grand white fellow, with the hall-mark of his
breeding, a lemon head. Big, and leanly strong,
his white coat shining with healthy lustre, his

134 The Grouse Family

muscles wirelike from wholesome toil, he stands
there as if carved from yon vein of snowy marble
gashing the distant cliff.

Yards rearward, at the right angle of the base
of the wedge, is another and entirely different
figure. The coat of a workmanlike brown, the
intent, half-crouching pose, graceful in many
curves, the poise of the perfect head, the clean-
cut profile, expressive eyes, lips parted in mute
expectancy, complete as perfect a picture of —

A bench winner, did you say?

Man! what are you talking about? She's
worthy of the bench all right—she’d adorn it
too! but did I really describe her according to
the pointer standard. Ye gods! well, anyhow, -
there’s no sense keeping her standing there.

The remaining figure looks like a tramp in its
dingy garb, but it feels like a king for the moment
at least. The apple of its eye is the grand white
dog; the crab-apple of its other eye is the crouch-
ing female to the right; while the glory-about-to-
be to both eyes is yet hidden in the stubble.

Boo-oo-o0-m ! A big bird roars up, and the man
starts violently and rocks backward two inches out
of plumb, for instead of the expected “chicken”
he sees a fantail with a broad velvet band which
is unmistakable. The way that gun remembers
and gets into action is a marvel to see, and the
bird goes down, despite its speed, not thirty-five
yards away.

I

THE RUEEED CROUSE SiRUGT

Some Glimpses of Grousing 135

The other figures stanchly hold their points,
and a low, eager whisper says, “ Good — give it to
them!”

Boo-oo-Boo-00-r-r ! One, two, a third, rise and
rush for the cover, which the first and second
are doomed never to reach. The gun seems to
be a live thing, going down, breaking, and spitting
out empties of itself and fairly reaching for more
shells. Then — Loo-oorr / again and again, then
a general explosion, and half a dozen birds are
flung into the air at once. Hasty fingers work
in vain this time, for no man living has a license
to load after a ruffed fellow has started. The
man in question is half rattled by his amazing
good fortune, and for the moment he forgets that
the lemon-headed dog is wise as serpents are sup-
posed to be, and that he is still propped.

Says the man, as he half turns, .“ Little
woman, I’ve shot ruffed grouse from ahem! to
Halifax, but this is the first time ever I tackled
‘em in Paradise! Why! if I'd had a repeater I
could have— £o0-00-oom-m !”

The white dog knew! To whirl, to miss clean,
to try a desperate chance with the second —all
these were so easy that he did them all there and
then. Buta random shot will kill, etc., for a curi-
ous thing happened. The straightaway bird prob-
ably had its head turned to one side, for at the
second report it lurched for an instant, appeared

136 The Grouse Family

to momentarily stagger in its flight, then up it
went in a mighty spiral, as though boring into
the blue beyond like a feathered corkscrew.

The man had loaded like lightning, and his
first impulse was to rush under and shoot the
climber. Then he thought of the dog, and of
something else, so he stood his ground while he
and his comrades stared with big eyes at the
strange exhibition.

Round and round in narrowing circles, higher
and higher, climbed the stricken thing, the shat-
tered nerve refusing to act, the blind eyes failing
to direct as the game heart wished. Up and up,
in smaller and smaller circles, with fan full-
spread and whirring wings, it toiled with nervous
strength, until it looked like a golden lark, for the
old sun was sorry to see it and glorified its dying
agony. At last the seemingly small wings stilled
and set full-spread, the legs stretched stiffly, and
like a kite with broken string it started earth-
ward.

“T’ll catch it,” said the man, as he laid down his
gun and sped forward with long leaps. He did
catch it without breaking a feather. He showed
the woman where the single pellet had struck.

“The rest are all down yonder in the scrub,
and we'll get —” here he happened to glance into
the woman’s eyes and hastily changed what he
had intended to say into, “the rest some other

Some Glimpses of Grousing 137

time. That is,’—he continued (for he had
learned about women from other women), “if
ever I molest this lot again.”

“Poor thing,” she half sighed, “it was so—”
then she stopped.

“Tl stuff it for you myself,” he remarked, as
he picked up the gun and turned homeward.
Her eyes shone with pleasure.

“What devilish queer things ¢4ey are, anyhow,”
muttered that same man to himself next morning
as he ploughed into the brush behind the white
dog’s first point.

Boo-o0-om-m ! — Boo-oo-m!— Bang!

“ Fi! this is where I get even — one of you fan-
tailed fools almost got me into trouble yesterday,”
chuckled the man, and he grinned with a devilish
glee.

Along a certain Wisconsin steep runs a pecul-
lar steplike formation—a smooth pathway one-
third of a mile long. Upon one side and for
many feet above rises a huge slope of forested
rock, which, upon the outer side of the path, falls
away into a dim ravine, so deep that only the
tallest of its tree-tops rise above the level of the
path. Viewed from the end, the effect is that of
a natural picture gallery hung with many gor-
geous “bits” (where the creepers and sumach
droop) from that master-hand of all.

The ruffed grouse love such places, as they

138 The Grouse Family

love the old logging roads and ancient trails.
To merely walk through that grand corridor
would be a treat for any lover of the world
beautiful; but to walk through with gun at the
ready and a grouse apt to spring any moment,
to dart into the corridor and speed the length of
it in full view, was—vwell, it was one of those
higher walks of life so frequently mentioned in
print, yet so seldom thoroughly enjoyed. That
corridor used to be good for sometimes half a
dozen birds, and in it, considering the beauty of
the surroundings and everything, the writer en-
joyed the finest grouse-shooting he has ever
known. It had variety too, for now and then a
wise bird would go boring up the height, or take
a dive into the ravine and fall dead, away below,
which, of course, meant a risky descent and a
return climb worthy of a youthful politician, or a
rib-nosed mandrill, or anything that aspires to
climb.

In Michigan there is a region—the natives
call it the “ Popples.” There the poplar brush is
reasonable, and a man may get fair chances and
many of them before the sun sinks below the
black forest line. In other places most of the
shooting must needs be done in the big woods,
or about their borders. There is, or perhaps
there was, one rare good bit where a slashing for

Some Glimpses of Grousing 139

a county line, or a road, had been cut for miles
through the woods. The trees had been felled
so the tops lay together, which formed a continu-
ous brush-pile sometimes for a mile at a stretch.
At intervals the land fell away to low swampy
expanses bearing much thicket. Along this line,
especially when there were two guns, to cover
both sides of the brush, the shooting used to be
fine. Frequently one could see the grouse mov-
ing about under the brush, and fifty times a snap-
shot camera might have “caught” the writer
with gun in left hand and a club, or snowball, in
the right, as he prepared to hurl in the missile
to start some grouse which hesitated about leav-
ing such excellent cover. To give an idea of the
number of birds—one well-remembered day’s
bag was twenty-six and a few hares, to two guns.
That day at least fifty birds were flushed, the
peculiar cover saving about half of them.

The sport of the Red River Valley would be
fine were it not for the nature of the cover, which,
far north at least, is mainly long slim saplings,
so closely crowded that free swinging of the gun
is impossible. The writer is a quick shot and
not awkward in brush, but the grouse of Mani-
toba have no great cause to regret his visits.
“What you think about it?” he once asked a
quaint old hunter who was guiding him in the

140 The Grouse Family

brush, and who openly yearned for chicken-shoot-
ing in the grass, and who still further had an exas-
perating habit of bawling, “ Did-you-git-h-i-m ? ”
every time a miss occurred, and invariably keeping
silent when the few kills were scored.

“Pretty good— what there is of it,” said the
old man, and when asked if there wasn’t enough
of it, he replied; “Oh, yes, there's a-plenty ofmit
—such as it is.” No bad description of the sport
in these covers.

In British Columbia the sport, as found, could
not compare with that of the East. Those who
know the wonderful western province will readily
guess why. In many places the trees almost
rival the famous big conifers of California, and
they are crowded together as thickly as it is
possible for such mighty trunks to stand. Fre-
quently the lower spaces are filled with ferns of
such size and luxuriance as to suggest semitropic
lands rather than a portion of Canada. In such
cover the keenest of guns can do little or nothing.
The writer is over six feet tall, but in that cover
he felt like a veritable babe in the wood. The
size of the firs was almost oppressive — but the
ferns—ye gods! such ferns. In places they grow
like the big western corn, close and rank, tower-
ing a yard or more above one’s head. If any of
them come under the classification of ‘“ maiden-

Some Glimpses of Grousing 141

hair,” they certainly would suggest a lithesome
wee maid of about the proportions of Goliath of
Gath. Among them, grouse after grouse can
buzz away unseen, while, in addition, the tremen-
dous fronds combine to form a most baffling

light.

Western Ontario need not be dwelt upon.
The country is very level, the best grounds being
moderately open woods, ordinary thickets, brier
patches, and the brushy beds of dry creeks. In
the greater part of this cover a quick, good shot
should gather half his birds early in the season,
and do better than that after the leaves are down.
As a whole it is a reasonably fair country.

In Pennsylvania, however, things are somewhat
different ; in fact the mountainous portions of that
state, much of it good grouse country too, will
tax a man’s strength, wind, and skill to the limit.
Very frequently the birds will be found high up
steep hillsides, and when flushed in such places
they are apt to go plunging down to the bottom
of the valleys at an astounding rate. Now,a
grouse going downhill moves as if possessed of
a devil, and it does things not at all calculated to
shorten its life. Toaman who has slowly climbed
the Blue Ridge, who has reached the top half
winded, and acquired a sneaking suspicion that
the sporting fixture of the day is not strictly on

142 The Grouse Family

the level, the ruffed rascal is a startling menace
against the pure joy of the great subsequent.
What he will see probably will resemble a
brown streak which curves over the rim of the
height and fairly sizzles valleyward in a peculiar
zigzagging, downward boring, which he ts apt to
hope will result fatally, yet which seldom does.
To swing a gun three ways at once is a serious
task for ordinary hands — in the writer’s opinion
a man-of-war with all hands busy couldn’t do
it—yet the hill-grouse of Pennsylvania will
unblushingly ask a newcomer to do this very
thing. And when a bird of chance flies into the
hail of lead, one’s triumph is too brief to talk
about. When you hit one, you hit it fair, and the
jar lifts it just enough to send it clear of every-
thing, down and down till it fetches up either in
some impetuous and thoughtless trout-stream:
which will rush it a mile away before you can
clamber down to where it fell, or else it will land
in some Dutchman’s field which is “posted.”
Then you have to go home and learn Dutch be-
fore you can explain to the owner of the land
why you are trespassing, and when you get back
the late owner’s grandson is working the farm,
and he insists that all claims against the estate
were settled by his father years before he died.
Or if, as sometimes happens, you actually
gather the bird before it gets too high, you look

Sabine’s Grouse 143

up at the serene brow of the hill and start to
register a vow that it would be sacrilege to re-
invade that lofty, holy calm. Before you are half
through registering, you suddenly remember that
the lunch is up there, alongside of a spring, that
the flask is cooling in the limpid depths. Then a
friendly Dutchman appears, greets you pleasantly,
and tells you there are plenty of grouse up there,
adding as an inducement, that you can see ever
so far south, the great storied ground — the battle-
fields. Surely you want to see the battlefields?
If you don’t kill him on the spot, you look him
squarely in the eye and in the smooth, convincing
tone of a steamboat’s siren you say: “No, sir!
I don’t want to see any battlefields — War — is
— hel-l-1-1!”

Of course all Pennsylvania isn’t on edge. There
are noble valleys and grand interspaces, but the
higher form of sport quite naturally is on top of
the hills. A chemical analysis of the writer’s
record there might read: lead, in paying quanti-
ties; saltpetre, abundant; language, rich; slaugh-
tered thace;

SABINE’S GROUSE
(BL. u. sabini)

Adult male and female — Upper parts, mostly dark, rusty chestnut,
with black mottling; rump and upper tail-coverts grayish in
many specimens; flanks, rusty, barred with black; tail, deep
rust color, with irregular black bars, and tipped with gray ; sub-

144 The Grouse Family

terminal band, black, with bar of gray above; under tail-coverts,
orange, barred with black and V-shaped white mark at tip;
feathers of thigh, brownish. Total length, about 17} inches ;
wings, 7}; tail, 6}. Habitat— Coast range of mountains, from
northern British Columbia to California. }

As will be noticed in the measurements,
Sabine’s, or the Oregon grouse, is a trifle larger
than its better-known relation of the East. To
give honor where ’tis due, this bird is also the
handsomest of all ruffed grouse, the rich, reddish
tone of its plumage being warmer and more pleas-
ing than the grayish cast of the other. I have
shot this bird at a dozen or more points in British
Columbia, and found its habits to be the same as
those of its relatives of seldom-disturbed sections
of Maine and the Canadian provinces. The food
consists of insects, seeds, berries, leaves, and buds.
It is, as a rule, excellent eating, but occasionally
the flesh has an unpleasant flavor owing to some
special diet. The nest, eggs, and young resemble
those of B. umbellus. Owing to the nature of the
cover of the west coast, Sabine’s grouse seldom
affords much sport, the majority of the birds
which reach the table being trapped.

THE CANADIAN RUFFED GROUSE
(B. u. togata)

While our highest scientific authorities have
agreed to consider this bird a subspecies of the

The Canadian Ruffed Grouse 145

ruffed grouse, the writer confesses his inability to
distinguish between the two birds, either by a
grayer cast of plumage, measurements, or for that
matter by any reliable marking or lack of mark-
ing. He has shot hundreds of them, all told,
which were natives of every Canadian province
except one, and he could no more swear to their
identity as B. w. cogata, as distinct from B. um-
bellus, than he could swear how many times they
had been missed before he happened to hold on
the right spot. An open confession is good for
the soul, and he will further confess that he
believes the shrewdest bird-sharp of them all
couldn’t tell which from tother, not even if he
first picked them feather by feather and then ate
them at his scientific ease.

As chief magistrate pro tem., 1 have sentenced
grouse to be shot, hung, drawn (both ways), and
quartered (halved is pene as it insures a squarer
deal in the matter of dressing); I have bagged
“smoky tufts,” black tufts, brown tufts, and no
tufts; gray tails, grayish brown tails, and reddish
brown tails; I have had all but one of them in the
same bag, and killed a brown tail with one barrel
and a gray tail with the other; and after a careful
consideration of the case my decision is, “ The
ruffed grouse is subject to considerable variation
in plumage, said variation not being thoroughly
understood by this or any other court.”

146 The Grouse Family

THE GRAY RUFFED GROUSE
(B. u. umbelloides)

In the Rocky Mountain region, from Colorado,
through western Dakota, Montana, Idaho, and
British Columbia, to the Yukon valley in Alaska,
is found this subspecies of the ruffed grouse. It
may readily be distinguished from B. umbellus
by its smaller size and the pronounced grayness
of the ground color of the plumage. While it
appears to prefer the dense cover of the banks of
streams and slight elevations, it has been taken
far up the sides of the loftiest peaks —as high as
nine or ten thousand feet. Its favorite food is the
buds of the spruce, which impart to the flesh a
flavor which might appeal to the palate of an
eastern spruce gum chewer, but which signally
fails to hold the appreciative attention of an
epicure, unless he also happens to be a lost
prospector keen for a “ grub-stake.” The average
length of this bird is about 144 inches; wing 74;
tail, 6.

I have never shot this bird. The few specimens
which I have seen and handled in the flesh were
brought aboard the tug upon which, with friends
interested in timber, I penetrated some of the
fiord-like sections of the northern coast of British
Columbia.

The Dusky Grouse 147

THE DUSKY GROUSE
(Dendragapus obscurus)

Adult male — Forehead, dull rufous ; back of head, brownish black,
with rusty markings, or all slate color; back of neck and upper
parts, a mixture of blackish brown, lighter brown, and gray, fre-
quently mottled; scapulars streaked with white along shafts ;
white space on sides of neck; throat, white with black mot-
tlings ; sides of head, black; lower parts, slate color, flanks
mottled with brown, the feathers streaked on shafts and tipped
with white; under tail-coverts, blackish brown, showing gray
barring, blackish mottling and bordering and white tips ; tail,
rounded, black, ending in broad gray band; primaries, dark
brown, outer webs and tips mottled with gray; legs covered to
toes with pale brown feathers; bill, horn color. Total length,
about 20 inches; wing, about 9}; tail, 8; tarsus, 13.

Adult female — Upper parts, mottled with black and buff ; feathers
usually tipped with white; wings, grayish brown, barred and
mottled with buff, streaked and tipped with white; primaries,
dark brown; throat, buff; sides and front of neck and chest,
dark rusty gray with buffy white bars and tips; rest of under
parts, slate, the flank-feathers with black and buff mottlings
and white tips; central tail-feathers, blackish brown, with gray-
ish brown bars mottled with black; rest of tail, black, with
slight gray mottlings, and ending in gray band. Total length,
about 17 inches; wing, about 83; tail, 6. Habitat — Rocky
Mountains from southern Idaho, Montana, and western South
Dakota to New Mexico and Arizona.

This grand species is, with the single exception
of the big cock-of-the-plains, the largest and at
the same time one of the finest of American
grouse. It delights in dense, elevated forests,
ranging upward from about two thousand feet
to the timber line. Among western sportsmen
it is termed the “blue,” or “gray,” grouse, and

148 The Grouse Family

those who have enjoyed the pleasure of shooting
and later eating it have yet to be heard from in
the line of adverse criticism. Its sole fault as a
game bird consists in its seldom being found in
cover which affords a fair chance to the gun. In
fact, it is such an inveterate lover of trees that it
takes to the branches as naturally as a duck takes
to water. Like the ruffed grouse, it will tree,
and remain motionless until it fancies it has been
observed; then it at once departs with a sound-
ing rush, which may only be stopped by the quick-
est and most skilled of shots. I have flushed it
when it seemed to do hardly anything more than
leap from the ground to a convenient limb, and
more than once, while seeking to trim off its head,
it has left the perch so suddenly that the gun
could not be shifted in time to prevent the wast-
ing of a shell —and this little joke at the expense
of a notoriously quick shot. Could this grouse
be induced to take to what in the case of ruffed
grouse would be fair cover, it would furnish sport
not surpassed by any of its family.

Only those familiar with the western cover can
understand how easy it is to fail to bag at short
range a bird about as large as a common barn-
yard hen —to be accurate, of between three and
three and one-half pounds’ weight. The tender-
foot would imagine such a bird, rising close at
hand, to be an easy, perhaps too easy, mark.

The Dusky Grouse 149

Let the tenderfoot climb the steeps and try a few
blue grouse as they leave the trees, and his song
may take on an undertone suggestive of blasted
hopes and trust betrayed. In the first place, the
cover usually is standing timber big enough to
stop a locomotive, to say nothing of small shot.
This timber, as I found it, is about as close as it
can stand, thereby forming something closely akin
toa gigantic stockade with extremely narrow inter-
spaces. Imagine a picket fence enlarged to Titanic
proportions with a swift bird whizzing along one
side, while from the other side the gun strove to
stop him as he crossed the gaps. Such a fence
would have a deal more picket than gap, and a
series of kills would represent a heap more luck
than good management on the part of the shooter.
Shooting through such an obstacle would mean
that when the bird was visible the gun would, or
should, be just ahead and swinging at equal speed,
which would further mean that the trigger would
have to be pulled either while the bird was invisi-
ble or while the gun was squarely on a picket —
a somewhat bitter experience has proved that
almost invariably the gun was on the picket, and
that the picket was some feet thick and utterly
unreasonable.

This grouse also is most difficult to locate even
when perched upon a limb only a few yards away.
In its native woods the light is baffling and there

150 The Grouse Family

is a confusion of shade, amid which the general
slaty tone of the plumage is barely distinguishable.
A coat of feathers especially designed with a view
to protective coloration could not better serve the
purpose, and the bird appears to be perfectly
aware of this. Indeed, its habit of trusting to its
trick of treeing and remaining motionless has
earned for it the name of “fool-grouse,” which
I believe should be applied only to young birds.
These unquestionably will tree and foolishly main-
tain their positions while their comrades are being
shot or clubbed down, but the older birds, except
in seldom disturbed localities, are wiser.

But fool grouse or no, when once the bird con-
cludes to start there is no more foolishness. With
a nerve-shaking whirring it promptly gets to top
speed, and usually darts downhill, a manceuvre
which greatly adds to the difficulty of the shot.
When taking wing it cackles like a scared
fowl.

In spite of the bird’s penchant for timber it
frequently is found in the open and in grain
fields. In such places the sportsman may enjoy
“blue grouse” shooting as it should be, and sport
of a very high order. Then the full strength and
speed of the game becomes apparent, and the man
who makes uniformly good scores has no reason
to fear any ordinary company. I recall several
truly delightful experiences, which, even to a gun

The Dusky Grouse 151

“thoroughly broke” on ruffed grouse and quail
in the heavy cover of the East, proved none too
easy.

The love-making of the male is marked by all
the pomp and vanity of the strutting gobbler;
indeed, in his actions he might pass for a turkey
bantam, but he has one marked peculiarity. It
is his habit to perch in some thick-growing tree,
and by filling the sacs upon his neck with air and
abruptly expelling it, to produce a low booming,
which has an extraordinary carrying and ventrilo-
quial power. This booming, or “ booing,” as some
westerners term it, seldom fails to sorely puzzle
a tenderfoot, the baffling feature of it being that
it does not appear to gain volume or distinctness
when the bird is closely approached. Even a vet-
eran blue grouse hunter will hesitate over saying
how far a booming grouse is distant.

The male, while a valiant cavalier during the
period of love-making, — May, or early in June,
according to the elevation of the range, — does not
trouble himself about the welfare of the young,
which are carefully tended by the mother. The
nest is a hollow scratched in the ground and
partially lined with grass or other soft material.
The number of eggs varies, seven or eight being
the average. Occasionally, about twice the usual
number are found, which would suggest the pos-
sibility of their having been deposited by two

152 The Grouse Family

hens. The color of the eggs varies from pale
to a decided buff with darker spots. The most
common site for the nest is alongside a log,
but the birds exercise little art either in build-
ing or concealing it. The period of incubation
is about twenty-one days, the young running as
soon as they are dry. They are prettily marked
above with light and dark buff, the under parts
light. Like the young of the ruffed grouse, they
are adepts at hiding. When sufficiently grown
to flutter to the lower branches of a tree, they
adopt the treeing habit, and from that time on
behave as do their elders.

The dusky grouse feeds upon the foliage of cer-
tain plants, berries, grasshoppers, and a variety of
other insects, grain, grubs, and worms. During
the period of deep snow, and snow 1s astonish-
ingly deep in some of its haunts, it sustains itself
upon the buds of conifers.

THE SOOTY GROUSE
(D. o. fuliginosus)

Only an expert could distinguish this race of
the preceding species. The plumage is several
shades darker, but all important markings are
about the same. It is found through the moun-
tains from California to Alaska. The habits,
nesting, young, and food resemble those of D.
ObSCUrUus.

The Canada Grouse 153

RICHARDSON’S GROUSE
(D. 0. richardsont)

The chief difference between this race and D.
obscurus is found in the tail, which in Richardson’s
grouse is square at the tip and lacking the con-
spicuous gray band. It, too, isa mountain dweller,
being found along the eastern slopes of the Rockies
from central Montana northward through themoun-
tain region of Canada, and has no peculiarities of
habits to distinguish it from its near relatives.

THE CANADA GROUSE
(Canachites canadensis)

Adult male— Upper parts, gray, barred with black; wings, lighter
gray mottled and barred with black, and brown tips; scapulars,
with central white streaks, widening at tips; under parts, black,
with border of mixed black and white to the throat, many of the
feathers tipped with white; flanks, pale brown, with irregular,
longitudinal black lines, and white streaks along the shafts,
broadening at the tips; under tail-coverts, black, tipped with
white; upper tail-coverts, black, mottled with brown and tipped
with gray. Bill, black. Total length, about 14} inches; wing,
7s tail; 5:

Adult female — Upper parts, barred with gray, buff, and black, the
gray most conspicuous on lower back and rump; sides of breast
and flanks, strongly tinged with buff; flank-feathers, with cen-
tral streak of white, broadening at tips. Abdomen, black,
ceathers tipped with white; under tail-coverts, black, barred
with buff, and tipped with white; median tail-feathers, barred
with buff and black; remainder, black, with irregular, narrow,
buffish lines and tipped with same color. No noticeable differ-
ence in the size of the sexes. The downy young are yellow with
dark markings above. A black line through the eye to the
nape.

154 The Grouse Family

An exceedingly pretty, but, from the sporting
point of view, a practically useless bird. It is
found throughout most of the forested regions of
Canada, from the Atlantic to the eastern slopes
of the Rockies, thence northward to the vicinity
of Kadiak, Alaska; and also through the north-
ern portions of the northern tier of states to the
Rockies. It prefers dense growths of spruce and
fir, and swamps of tamarack. It is a hardy bird,
but so gentle and confiding as to appear stupid.
It is usually seen in small companies, as if one
brood, and is common in the vicinity of the old
portages and trails made by the lumberman and
fur-trader. The writer has twice caught mature
specimens with his bare hands, and it is a com-
mon trick of woodsmen to decapitate a bird with
a switch, or noose it with a bit of twine. Once
the writer came precious near hooking one with a
trout fly, at which the grouse had pecked. Only
a dislike to needless cruelty, and a respect for a
fine rod, saved this particular bird. Quite often
the brood is met with in the trail, when they will
sedately step aside about sufficiently far to make
room for the intruder’s boots, meanwhile regard-
ing him with a laughable air of affectionate inter-
est. No doubt this grouse could fly rapidly should
it choose to exert its powers, but it is content with
more leisurely movements. The flesh is very dark,
and even when at its best is fit only for a hungry

The Canada Grouse 155

man. In the winter it is bitter, and entirely un-
worthy of a place upon the table. Some people
claim to like it, but tastes are bound to differ. In
my opinion this grouse should never be shot, but
suffered to live out its gentle life in the grim old
woods, to which its presence lends the touch of
life too seldom seen.

Its courtship presents some peculiarities which
cannot fail to interest the intelligent spectator.
The male struts as proudly as the grandest gob-
bler of barnyard or forest; his red combs show
erect and swollen, and he seems all puffed up with
pride and passion. Suddenly he leaps into the
air with wings whirring like electric fans, and for
a moment or two hovers as though fixed to the
spot, then slowly lowers himself. The sound of
the wings when he is thus engaged may be heard
at a considerable distance, but, like the whirring of
the true pheasant, it is ventriloquial, and difficult
to locate. The nest consists of a few leaves and
light stuff arranged with little care, frequently in the
shelter of a thick spruce. The number of eggs
varies from eight to about a dozen. The ground
color is buff, with irregular brownish marks. Only
one brood is raised in a season. The young be-
have like other youthful grouse, and the mother
displays an obstinate devotion seldom equalled,
bustling about one’s feet, and almost attacking in
her nervous anxiety to draw the peril toward herself.

156 The Grouse Family

FRANKLIN'S GROUSE
(C. franklinz)

The distinguishing marks of this species are
the broad, white bars at the end of the upper tail-
coverts. It is also a trifle larger than C. canaden-
sts, which it otherwise closely resembles. Its
range includes the Rocky Mountains from north-
western Montana, through Oregon and Washing-
ton and the Coast Range of British Columbia to
Alaska. It prefers high elevations, usually be-
tween five and ten thousand feet. In disposition
it is even more fearless and confiding than its
relative of the East. As an object of the sports-
man’s interest, it is absolutely without merit.

THE PRAIRIE-HEN

(Lympanuchus americanus)

Adult male — Upper parts, brown, barred with black and buff; wing-
feathers tipped with buff; a tuft of stiff, elongated feathers,
capable of being elevated over the head on either side of the
neck, black, with buff centres, frequently chestnut on inner
webs; chin, throat, and cheeks, buff, the latter marked with
dark brown spots; a brown line from mouth, beneath the eye,
to ear-coverts ; buff stripe from maxilla to and beyond the eye;
under parts, white, barred with brown; flanks, barred with dark
brown and buff; under tail-coverts, white, margined with brown
and buff; tail, brown, tipped with white; large sacs of loose
skin beneath the long neck-feathers. Total length, about 18
inches; wing, 9; tail, 44. The female is like the male, but a
trifle smaller, and the neck-tufts are very short. She has no
sacs on the neck. The downy young are light buff, with darker

The Prairie-Hen 157

markings on head and upper parts. Range— Prairies of Mis-
sissippi Valley from Manitoba to Ontario, Michigan, and Ohio,
west to the Dakotas, Kansas, and Indian Territory, south to
Louisiana and Texas.

Of all the grouse family, this bird—the “chicken”
of shooting lore — probably yields the most com-
plete satisfaction to the great army of American
sportsmen. Its greatest rival is the famed red
bird of the moors over sea, but if the question of
all-round merit were left to popular vote, beyond
all doubt the “ chicken ” would poll an overwhelm-
ing majority. Nor is this to be wondered at, for
unquestionably it is ¢#e bird of the people.

Were the cleverest sportsman who ever lived
to undertake the designing of a bird of habitat
and habits to suit the wishes of perhaps three-
fourths of the gunners of this country, the result
of his labor surely would be something very like
a chicken. Let us glance at its qualifications:
it is of good size, carrying plenty of wholesome
and excellent meat; its appearance is pleasing;
it is vigorous and prolific ; it is a useful friend to
the farmer; and it loves a region of pure air and
pleasant sunshine, wherein an overworked man
may find a cure-all for his mental worry and re-
sultant ills; its ranges may be reached in comfort
and traversed with pleasure; it behaves well be-
fore dogs; it gives the gun a fair, open chance,
seldom being found in anything like really diffi-

158 The Grouse Family

cult cover; and, perhaps best of all, it offers a
comparatively easy mark early in the season
when the guns are apt to be out of form, with in-
creasing difficulties as the season advances, when
the guns should be doing better, while near the
close of the season it will thoroughly test the skill
and resourcefulness of the deadliest of the masters
of the shotgun. Lives there another game bird
of which as much may be truly said? And this
is not all, for the big, generous chicken goes even
farther and extends an invitation to the lame, the
halt, and — I came pretty near saying the blind!
Come to think of it, the chicken might welcome
the blind—nay! even prefer them —but that
doesn’t matter. Lest these rather sweeping state-
ments should be misunderstood, it is pardonable
to explain that (providing what’s left of him be
all right) a one-armed, one-legged, or no-legged
man may enjoy his chicken-shooting with the
best of them. The western prairies have their
fine shots who are maimed in all three ways, for
the chicken may be shot from either the saddle,
or any suitable wheeled conveyance, without any
need for the gunner to move from his seat. Shoot-
ing from the saddle is a method which is common
in both West and South, but only the prairie in
some form can offer reliable sport to the man on
wheels.

The prairie-hen, now inseparably associated

The Prairie-Hen 159

with the country of magnificent open plains, was
not always confined to its present ranges. There
is no reason to doubt that it was once very abun-
dant much farther east than its present limit, and
it is more than probable that in the old days the
birds favored tracts of open woodlands. Like
the quail, the “chicken ” follows the plough, which
accounts for the gradual extension of its range
westward, while the narrowing of the eastward
limit is readily explained by the increased number
of guns and other destructive agencies. In most
of its present haunts the bird may be considered
a resident, yet there is somewhat of a drifting
movement southward from the extreme northern
grounds, which occasionally amounts to what
might be termed a partial migration. Strangely
enough, this southward movement appears to be
comnbiee chiefly to the females, the great majority
of the males sticking to their native ranges in
spite of furious storms and arctic temperature.
Few of those at all familiar with the prairies
have failed to notice the love-making—the pecul-
iar booming and ridiculous antics of the males
of this species, which are so characteristic of the
first few days of early spring. The low, booming
sound carries far through the still gray atmos-
phere of earliest dawn, and when, as usually hap-
pens, a lot of old males have assembled upon
some slightly rising ground, they make a row

160 The Grouse Family

which would do credit to a host of gigantic bull-
frogs.

When I first heard this booming, it sorely puz-
zled me. It was in western Ontario, on what is
known as Raleigh plains —an extensive tract of
low, marshy land, lying for miles along the south
bank of the Thames River. During early spring
this tract was flooded with the exception of a
limited central area of less than one hundred
acres in extent. Spring shooting of geese, duck,
and snipe was then both legal and amazingly
good, guns were comparatively few, and the plains
formed something very like an earthly Eden for
those sufficiently game to face astounding mud
and ice-cold water. To get out before gray dawn,
to occupy some trifling “hide,” and there await
the morning flight of waterfowl, was the proper
caper. This frequently was wet, dirty work, but
the shooting was grand, so discomfort was cheer-
fully endured. Just before sunrise, from the higher
part of the plains there invariably came a mysteri-
ous sound — “ Boo-rum-roo-boo-rum-roo” often re-
peated. I had then never seen a live prairie-hen,
nor had the older local gunners, and the booming
sound troubled me much. It was easily imitated,
and one day I spoke of it to three red-faced old
rascals of the genuine old sporting school.

“What’s it like?” growled one, who hated
troublesome boys as he hated his Satanic majesty.

The Prairie-Hen 161

The unfortunate writer voiced a good imitation
of the strange sound.

“Why, you d d young fool—that’s a dzd/-
frog!” roared the old cock, making a wrathful
pass with his cane. But the writer was agile, and
he fled abashed. The next time he heard the
sound, he deliberately forfeited all chance for
waterfowl by wading directly across the marsh
through water and mud frequently up to his
waist. The sound led him on and on, until at
last he descried a large fowl-like bird upon a
knoll, and traced the sound to it. When the
bird flushed, he didn’t know what it was, so he
shot at it, and greatly to his regret it proved to
be a fine male pinnated grouse, or prairie-hen.
He stuffed the bird, and it is still in his posses-
sion, and although he has since killed hundreds
—perhaps thousands might be nearer the mark
—he has yet to see a finer specimen. Later
developments proved the old male to have had
company, to be exact, upon the plains in question,
and upon another similar expanse a few miles
away, there were years later as many as seventy-
five or one hundred “chickens.” Possibly a few
of their descendants still survive.

But to see the chicken at home, one should go
to the Dakotas, Minnesota, or Manitoba, or one
of the good western grounds. The observer, who
should be equipped with a powerful glass, may

162 The Grouse Family

there study birds at his leisure, and learn much
of their curious ways during the love-making sea-
son. Then the old males are full of fire, and their
booming comes to the ear like the muffled lowing
of distant herds of cattle. Through the glass one
can follow every move of the assembled males,
note the absurd posturing of love’s minuet, the
frenzied strutting, and the often furious fight-
ing. The male has upon either side of his neck
a yellow sac, which roughly resembles the half of
an orange. These he can inflate to an enormous
size, and collapse them at will, and during the
emptying of these sacs is produced the booming
sound. While strutting the bird presents an
extraordinary appearance. The sacs are inflated
until they suggest the rubber bladder toy of the
children; the bird’s head almost disappears be-
tween them, while their tremendous enlargement
forces forward the long winglike feathers of the
neck until they project above the head almost to
the point of meeting. With the sacs fully in-
flated, the neck appears to be as large as the
body, while the hornlike projected feathers lend
an uncanny effect which, to say the least, is start-
ling, if not rather devilish. The short tail, fully
spread, is raised fanlike above the back, while the
wings are lowered like those of a strutting gobbler
until the primaries scrape the ground. The strut-
ting is, of course, intended to impress the onlook-

The Prairie-Hen 163

ing females with the idea that each male is a
devil of a fellow, and a most desirable fAaréz.
The various movements embrace a series of pos-
turings varied with abrupt, short rushes this way
and that. Every now and then a male lowers his
head and expels the air from his sacs, and the
booming sound speeds over the great grassy sea,
as the voice of white-maned breakers comes from
the distant reef. I have lain watching and listen-
ing while one hundred or more were thus en-
gaged, and the experience was well worth the
trouble of beating the sun across the grass. The
grand concert is always about sunrise, but scat-
tered birds may be heard at any time during the
day.

The big musterings are continued each morn-
ing for about a week, and toward the end the man
with the glass may enjoy a surfeit of impromptu
fights, for the jealous males mill it right merrily
as though they considered their meeting-place an
exaggerated cockpit. They fight with feet, wings,
and bills; pecking savagely, hanging on, and leap-
ing and striking somewhat after the manner of
their remote kin—the wearers of the deadly
gaffs. When one feels that he has been suffi-
ciently mauled, he “flies the pit,” and unless he
has luck in running across some lone maid, or
some mated male who either is a poor fighter or
will submit to a bluff, he wins no mate that sea-

164 The Grouse Family

son. These lone males are termed by the plains-
men “old solitaries,” and they are apt to prove
wary and afford long-range single chances when
the shooting season comes. It is to be hoped
that they “get into the game again ” the following
spring, but naturally this is a difficult matter to
prove, with the probabilities in favor of another
attempt.

Once mated, the pairs scatter far and wide,
nesting wherever they find suitable sites, such as
a thick clump of grass or weeds. The nest is
merely a slight depression lined with grass and a
few feathers. The eggs vary considerably both
in ground, color, and markings, the usual type
being pale brown freckled with reddish brown.
They are hatched in about twenty-five days, the
period of incubation being irregular, perhaps
slightly influenced by the weather. The number
of eggs varies greatly, as many as twenty having
been found, although the average would appear
to be about adozen. Should a nest be destroyed,
especially before the completion of the laying, the
hen will build anew and proceed to business. In
such cases the number of eggs is apt to be some-
what below the average. So soon as the hen
begins to brood, the male takes himself off, as
though “the subsequent proceedings interested
him no more.”

The young run as soon as they are dry, and the

The Pratrie-Hen 165

nest has no further attraction for them, the mother
covering them wherever the close of the day finds
them; but as they are given to hanging about
some spot where food is abundant, they may be
found for days in succession on this favorite
ground. The hen is an excellent mother, giving
warning at the first sign of danger and feigning
lameness to attract the intruder to herself. The
wee chicks are swift of foot and clever at hiding,
and the discovery of them in the open by no
means implies the capture of even one. The first
food of the chicks is insects of various kinds, the
main course being grasshoppers. In this purely
insectivorous stage the birds perform a distinct
service the value of which must be considerable.
Later on, the diet is varied with seeds, berries,
and grain, wherever the latter is to be had.

By the middle of August, in average seasons,
the young look large when they flush, but they
are still soft and comparatively weak of wing.
By the first of September, however, the majority
of them are strong enough to afford the best of
shooting, and they are then extremely good eat-
ing. The flesh is then white, but it darkens as
the bird ages. A peculiarity of it is that it does
not improve with hanging. Experienced chicken
shooters know this, and they never hesitate over
eating a bird within a few hours of its death.
Upon rising the chicken clucks gruffly and speeds

166 The Grouse Family

away, usually in a straight line a few feet above
the grass. The flush is accompanied by a vigor-
ous whirring, the flight being marked by periods
of rapid wing-beats alternating with gliding upon
set pinions, not unlike the flight of the meadow-
lark. Early in the season the birds lie like stones,
frequently in thick cover, waiting until almost
trodden upon. The flush almost invariably is
straggling, the birds getting up singly, and by
twos and threes. The old hand knows this, and
with an ejector gun and nimble fingers he fre-
quently bags half a dozen in swift succession to
the one point. Now and then an unusually quick
man will bag an entire brood without leaving his
tracks. This is ¢he feat of chicken-shooting, and
I never will forget one glorious day when, before
the keen eyes of a remorseless critic and now fa-
mous writer, I dropped eleven singles and doubles,
nor his frenzied roar of, “ Kill her, you!” when
the old hen, true to habit, flushed last and was luck-
ily dropped full fifty yards away. That little inci-
dent was the beginning of a friendship which is
worth more than all the game in North America,
but it is now an old story.

Upon another occasion, in South Dakota, I was
shooting in company witha quite celebrated trap-
shot — peace be to his ashes! He wanted one
hundred chickens to send East for some special
purpose, and he declared that he would work the

The Prairie-Hen 167

dogs while the other fellow did the shooting. It
was just at the prime of the season and birds
were plentiful. The first day’s bag was a heavy
one, the second nearly as good, the third some-
what lighter, eleven chickens being required to
complete the hundred. This was an easy task
for the morning, so preparations were made for
breaking camp.

“Never mind about shells, there’s lots in the
rig,” he remarked, as we prepared to start. The
dogs sailed away and soon found game, which
flushed in the usual straggling fashion, and paid
the usual penalty. A second lot was located and
it yielded three. Finally the dogs pulled up
beside a big strip of rank grass. “How many
shells you got left?” queried the driver.

“Two in the gun and—one in the pocket,” was
the reply after a feel.

“ Good — kill out,” was the gruff rejoinder.

It was a simple task, for the birds had almost
to be kicked out of the grass. As the third fell,
to my amazement there was a roar from the buck-
board, and what felt like a drunken gorilla fell
upon me and bore me, face downward, into the
grass, where I was mauled, as it was put, “Good
and plenty.” The cause of the asylum-suggestive
demonstration proved to be the somewhat start-
ling fact that the driver had been keeping tabs on
the shells, and for the several trips the birds and

168 The Grouse Family

shells tallied. It wasanextraordinary performance,
which, needless to say, that gun has never dupli-
cated either upon chickens or any other game.
That was chicken-shooting with everything in
the gun’s favor, but it did not represent the best
of the sport, which can only be enjoyed during
those occasional warm, windless, sleepy spells which
come later, and which are so strongly suggestive
of the genuine Indian summer of the East. Then
the fully matured birds le like dead things, but
rise swift and strong and go whizzing away on
what surely will prove very long flights unless the
lead prevents. Then is the time when a man can
perhaps kill his twenty odd in succession, yet feel
that every kill is an individual triumph of manly
skill, for the range with a quick man must needs
be short, and the work clean, be it hit or miss.
Quite often birds will lie closer than is desirable.
In such cases an imitation of the sound of the
whirring flush is apt to start near-lying individuals.
The sound of the voice also startles them, hence,
when a nice lot of birds are down in good cover,
it is well to avoid speaking to dog or comrades.
Where the country comprises a mingling of
cover and small prairies, as in some of the best
parts of Wisconsin, the chickens after the first
flush make for the wooded or brushy hillsides
which are almost invariably within easy flight.
Much of the timber of these hillsides is small

The Prairie-Hen 169

oak, and the general appearance is parklike. On
such ground the shooting is excellent, there being
just enough trees to keep a man keen and careful.
Many other places present a snarl of low scrub-
oak and hazels, seldom more than waist-high. In
such cover the chickens lie like quail, and a good
shot can walk them up singly and drop bird after
bird till his coat can hold no more —then hey!
for the following wagon, to deposit therein the
slain, and to resume the beat till the coat is again
too heavy for comfort.

Days on these small Wisconsin prairies leave
enduring memories. It is quite true that the
number of birds and the possible bags could
never rival the possibilities of the mighty grass-
lands farther west, yet a gun could stop from a
dozen to three times that number of birds during
a day of hard work, and could a sportsman desire
more? Your true sportsman is an artist, not a
butcher ; and amid the billowy hills of Wisconsin
he may feast his eyes upon a grand succession of
vistas, steeps of purpling oaks, ravines of golden
poplars, and sweet intervales of snug homes lying
amid well-tended fields, which delightfully serve
tosharpen the wild beauty of the background,
which remains as it has ever been.

And they will not all be chickens, those birds
which Nimrod lovingly smooths and counts at
nightfall, when the tang gets into the air and the

170 The Grouse Family

crimson pales behind the dusky hills. The
ruffed grouse whirls the painted leaves as his
swift fans thrill the silence; small Bob, too,
rouses mimic thunders as he rips the dappled sun-
shine with tiny might; and now and then, e’en to
this day, a swift gray arrow cleaves the still, sweet
air and strikes its target of glowing foliage. The
thought that this lone arrow may be the last of
all those myriad flights which once assailed these
lichened keeps and vine-hung battlements, should
quench the war-spark in the eye and slacken the
ready finger just in time, for the pigeon is too
rare for one to be destroyed.

The great plains, while lacking the beauty of
foliage and picturesque irregularities of Wiscon-
sin, yet possess a charm peculiarly their own —a
breadth and power, somewhat like that of the
ocean, which gives a sense of freedom and daring
to whoever trails far out and sees the dim blue
of distant forests rimming like fading shores the
huge, halted billows of grass. To camp night
after night amid sweet grass, to trail day after
day over a silent expanse, where nature never
sounds a discordant note, to toil until weary of a
fascinating task, to eat when hungry, and to sleep
till thoroughly rested and refreshed, is no bad
medicine for a man whose nerves may have been
racked by the ceaseless throb and jar of some
busy city. And there is another, which to many

The Prairie-Hen V71

is by far the more attractive way, viz., to secure a
properly appointed car and have it side-tracked
somewhere where the game is abundant, and,
with the car as a home upon wheels, to shoot in
every direction until a change may be desired
and the car be hauled to the chosen point.

This is the wiser plan for the latter part of the
season, for the car is better than any temporary
camp can possibly be made. With it, a party of
good fellows may have a royal time without for-
feiting one of those creature comforts which, after
all has been said, are not characteristic of camps,
yet which go so far toward impressing a man
with the idea that life really is worth living.
Given such an outfit, and with birds wilder and
stronger of wing, as they are bound to prove as
the season advances, and the man who cannot
enjoy himself probably is one of those fellows
who would come out nights and “kick” because
his grave wasn’t properly aired and lighted, or
who would want to go right back because the
celestial pavement wasn’t built of the particular
brand of gold brick which he had handled in
Jersey.

As the end of the season approaches, some-
times earlier, if an unseasonable chilly period
arrives, the scattered broods unite and form
packs, which frequently contain hundreds of
birds. They are then entirely too wild to be

172 The Grouse Family

depended upon for sport with the gun, although
an occasional warm spell may cause a good day.
A pack will seldom allow a man to approach
within anything like shotgun range, and, if
flushed, it rises with an astounding roar of wings
and streams away at an electric clip for perhaps a
mile, or more. To follow is well-nigh useless, for
the birds will not lie, and the pursuer may rest
assured that a lot of keen eyes are following his
every movement. Under such conditions it is
possible to have a bit of sport with a rifle of
medium calibre, and this is not to be despised
by the energetic man who craves a hard, health-
giving tramp and who can content himself with
a brace or so of birds. Quite often it is possible
to get fair chances at from fifty to seventy-five
yards, when the man possessed of that rare gift—
the power to correctly estimate distance on the
plains —and the skill to put his lead where he
wants it, may kill enough birds to keep his
interest from waning.

The best dog for chicken-shooting is the best
dog for any form of upland shooting, ze. a thor-
oughly broken pointer or setter. Both breeds
have stanch admirers, who do not hesitate to
claim a marked superiority for their favorite. In
my opinion, and I have had much to do with both
dogs, there is no perceptible difference in the
quality of the actual field work. To any one but

The Prairie-Hen 173

a pronounced advocate of the pointer, the setter
is a far handsomer and frequently a more intelli-
gent animal, which, as a rule, makes it the more
desirable companion, especially during the close
season. My preference is for the pointer, be-
cause of his more uniform steadiness upon scant
work, and his ability to stand hard work dur-
ing warm weather without continually requiring
water. This upon the plains is no unimportant
matter, for in many sections good water in abun-
dance is not readily obtainable, which means that
wise men will carry a full keg lashed to the rig
wherever they go. The chief disadvantage of the
pointer is that he rarely has sufficient coat to
properly protect his hide from the sharp, coarse
grass, while his almost hairless feet are liable to
injury from continuous work in stiff, new-cut
stubble. In point of fact the weakness of one
dog is the strength of the other; hence, the set-
ter, being the better protected all round, can
better stand the wear and tear, while his rival,
owing to his lack of protective coat, is less liable
to overheating and its continuous thirst. Under
reasonably fair conditions, the dogs are equal in
speed, range, nose, staying powers and “bird-
Sense.”

Be the dog of either breed, to win renown upon
the prairie he needs mzs¢ be a free, wide, fast
ranger and a determined worker, not afraid to

174 The Grouse Family

go a mile, if need require, from his handler, and
sufficiently stanch to hold his point without a
waver, although many minutes should elapse
before reénforcements arrive. A dog of fine
nose and intelligence, if possessed of the other
qualifications, is a treasure beyond price. The
trouble with eastern-broken dogs when they first
attempt prairie work is that the ground is too
vast for them. Unaccustomed as they are to
an apparently limitless scope of novel cover with
never a fence or bit of brush to catch their eye
and draw them on, they are apt to at first feel
somewhat dazed by the seemingly hopeless pros-
pect before them. Nor is this to be wondered at,
for not seldom the man, too, feels how small is the
chance of striking the right spot in all that sea
of space. But a good dog is good anywhere, and
presently, after he has enjoyed his initial whiff of
the rich new scent, he will go striding away at
that regular, determined, all-day-got-to-find-’em-at-
last gait which is the hall-mark of a good one
broken on the plains.

The deadliest foes of the prairie-hen, ranked
in order of destructiveness, are: man, as sports-
man, lighter of fires, farmer, and as trapper; the
weather, as snow, cold, and rain; the beasts and
birds. of prey — wolves, foxes, skunks, and hawks
and snakes. Dismissing the ravages by weather,
of which excessive rain, by reason of its flooding

THE PRAIRIE CHICKEN

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The Prairie-Hen 175

the nests and killing the young, causes by far the
greatest damage, man is responsible for the really
heavy mortality. If all the chickens which annu-
ally fall victims to the legitimate use of the gun
could be piled in one heap, the mountain of meat
would be quite large enough to make most people
gasp in amazement. Yet so productive are the
birds, and so broad their yet available ranges,
that with rational game laws, rigidly enforced, the
sport they afford might be indefinitely prolonged.
Unfortunately, too many men are slow to under-
stand the necessity for only killing in reason and
in season. In far too many instances the man
who abides by the law and fares forth upon the
first lawful day finds that some sneaking ruffian
has been over the ground in advance of the legiti-
mate hour. Nor must it be imagined that only
the needy poacher or the merciless market hunter
is to blame. To their shame be it said that a
host of well-to-do and apparently respectable citi-
zens appear to look upon a game law as though
they imagined it to be a sort of legal sieve, ex-
pressly designed for something to be strained
through it. Just why some men, who perhaps
would spend their last blood in resenting an open
attack upon their honor, can sink to the level of
a sneak thief when it comes to a question of
obeying a game law, I am unable to fathom.
They can well afford to wait, they cannot truth-

176 The Grouse Family

fully plead either ignorance or necessity, yet
when the test comes they are as rotten as the
stinking birds which foul their lawless trail, for
they never durst take home their game. It is my
misfortune to have met some of these men, to
have heard their smug boastings of how in their
small rascality they evaded this game warden, or
tipped (bribed is the proper word) that one; and
the boasters never appeared to realize how truly
their own testimony damned them in the opinion
of sportsmen of the True Blue Lodge, which, like
that other great Lodge, sternly holds each brother
to the leal, the fair, and the clean. Perhaps better
things are coming. Peradventure a broader reali-
zation of what constitutes true sportsmanship may
yet eradicate that disease known as illegal shoot-
ing. ‘Twill be better so! I have seen that dis-
ease break out within the supposed to be sacred
circles of Drug and Bench and Bar and Pen and
Sword — yea! even in the Church —and I have
marvelled at the mote detectors who saw not the
beam they bore.

The prairie fires are mainly due to the bucolic
custom of firing the grass in the spring. Other
fires are caused by sparks from engines, and a
few by sheer carelessness on the part of some
smoker or rubbish burner. So far as the farm-
ers are concerned, they might better burn their
grass in the fall and avoid spoiling eggs. In

A Match at Chickens 177

these days, with men ready to pay well for good
shooting, a wise farmer can make his chicken
crop quite a profitable item —certainly one well
worth taking care of. If grass has to be burnt,
it should be late in the fall. This means a better
growth next season and without any particular
damage. The other fires come under the head
of accidents which will continue as long as
mortals remain careless and engines are allowed
to belch forth sparks.

In regard to trapping, little need be said. Vigor-
ous, efficient game wardens will in time suppress
much of it. In any event the writer has not the
slightest intention of taking the chances of spread-
ing possibly pernicious literature, by describing
in detail the several forms of traps which he has
found and kicked to flinders, or otherwise put out
of commission. The other foes, furred, feathered,
and scaled, will meet their end as settlement
increases.

A MATCH AT CHICKENS

My second visit to the western club which
had kindly extended the guest’s privilege was
productive of a big surprise. The colonel was
in the library, and, as usual, was surrounded by
a half-dozen grinning members, for the colonel
was a character, and when he opened his mouth
there were liberated words of huge wisdom and
exceeding joy.

178 The Grouse Family

“There he is now!” exclaimed somebody,
whereupon the colonel at once rose and, looking
very wise, signed for me to follow him into a
private room. He tapped the table, muttered
“Sit down,” and then took his stand directly in
front. He was good to look at, the colonel was.
Full six feet three, and powerfully built, he
carried himself with that military back which
some old warriors never lose. His long, snow-
white hair, mustache, and imperial suggested the
South, which was his home, while the keen black
eyes and clean-cut, extraordinarily handsome fea-
tures stamped him as one of F.F.V.’s. Nor did.
his appearance belie him, for the colonel was one
of the genuine old fire-eating, high-bred lot.

“T’ve matched you, suh,” he began, in a deep
voice, “to shoot against young M in the field,
any game recognized as such to count. It’s to be
a fa-ah, squa-ah, gentlemanly contest, and the best
man is to win. Have I done right, suh?—I
couldn’t send you word.”

“But, Colonel,—” 1 began, then hesitated, for
his bronzed face was perceptibly flushing and the
snowy mustache was beginning to bristle in an
extraordinary manner.

“Well, suh?— Do you desiah to — to — back
out 2”

Something in the slight emphasis upon the
final words was pregnant with unpleasant possi-

A Match at Chickens 179

bilities, so the only thing left was to mutter some-
thing about every gentleman being entitled to a
run for his money, and to assume a cheerfulness
not caused by a chunk of ice down one’s spine.

“Then it’s a go—shake!” exclaimed the
colonel, and he added, with truly majestic impres-
siveness: “ By suh! we'll win! I have never
yet made a match of my own seeking and lost,
suh! It’s only a dinnah for six gentlemen and
a trifling side bit, but we'll win it. We'll show
them that an Englishman is game off his own
dunghill.”

The crafty old devil slewed an eye round to see
how the deliberately intended prod operated, then
he smiled like the white-headed old reprobate he
was. Some needful discussion followed, and suf-
fice it to say that an early start the following
morning was agreed upon. |

“How you gunned?” he finally inquired, and
I assured him that the gun was al right, which
was true.

“Go get it—I always attend to detail, suh,” he
concluded.

When the case was opened and the gun put
together and passed round for inspection, I could
almost have laughed. The other party to the
wager almost snatched at it, and it did not require
his sly wink to a friend, or his ill-concealed satis-
faction as he politely returned the gun, to tell that

180 The Grouse Family

he had fallen into a grievous error. Not so the
colonel. He looked long and earnestly at the
flawless finish, tried one lock close to his ear,
glanced through the gleaming tubes, then laid it
down without a word of comment. But there was
the faintest of quivers of one eyelid which spoke
volumes.

And well might he be pleased, for never in his
life had he fingered the like of that beautiful
seven-pound arm, my one serious extravagance
and the finest thing of the kind which a world-
famous maker could build.

“We'll out-gun ’em fo’ shuah,” he said, then
hastily added, “‘ Hello! here comes your rival.”

The introduction and totally unnecessary ex-
planations followed, and, after the manner of men,
we looked each other over. There is a certain
mesmeric, or other influence in a cool, deliberate
scrutiny, and the other fellow assuredly got all that
was coming to him, for the writer was not ignorant
of match-making. The rival was a tall, slender,
handsome young fellow, straight as a rush.

“West Point, Mr. M ?” T ventured, after a
moment.

“Hardly that — yer,” he retorted, and a flicker
of something very like a faint sneer for an instant
played about his mouth. He examined the gun,
and again the mouth told the same story, although
outwardly he was the perfection of good breeding.

A Match at Chickens 181

“You're a bit overfond of yourself, my bold
Bucko,” was my inward comment.

Somehow, after chatting for an hour or so
among pleasant company, the match did not
appear hopeless, although the talk proved that
young M was considered a tearing fine shot.
Just what 4e thought about it, of course, was un-
fathomable, but his jauntiness azd@ seem to have a
certain forced air. In fact, the man did not ring
true.

“Come, time to turn in,” at last said the colonel,
and we walked away together. Then for half an
hour I listened to the counsel of a man who could
outgamble and outbluff all his friends; who was
a master at most games of hazard, and who
thoroughly understood how to get the last ounce
out of any man he stood behind. “Mark my
words, suh,” he concluded, “I know the man.
Well ahead, he’s a wondah; even, he’s only ordi-
nary; and once behind, he’s beat. Give it to
him from the start, and keep on giving it to him.
No matter if you’re behind, keep after him, and
remember he’s liable to come back to you any
minute. We've got him beat as sure as sunrise.
Now go get your sleep, and don’t you worry.
Leave it to me, suh.”

Promptly on time the wagon drove up, the
colonel tooling a pair of grand blacks. In the
rear seat sat M and his friend, and between

182 The Grouse Family

their feet was a fine Irish setter. In front was the
colonel, chipper as a boy, and beside him a mag-
nificent heavy pointer. The keen eyes gave me
one searching glance, then gleamed with satisfac-
tion, for sleep had been what it should be, and he
at once recognized the fact. In a moment we
were off, and within an hour we had reached the
first ground, a series of vast natural pastures with
brushy hills beyond. The dogs were started, and
as they raced away, the colonel said : —

“Gentlemen, you are to shoot in turn and to
order. When I say ‘Go,’ the gentleman whose
turn it happens to be must either protest there
and then, or take what flushes, providing it be a
game bird within a reasonable distance. There
will be no appeal after either gentleman has fired
his gun. Mr. M , your friend has won the
toss, and he wants first shot. You will use both
barrels if you see fit; a bad shell will be ‘no bird,’
and a fair bird allowed to go unshot at will be
‘lost... Do you understand, gentlemen?”

We signified that we thoroughly understood,
and the team followed the dogs, which were tack-
ing far away. It soon developed that the dogs
were having a private match of their own. The
red fellow, lean and hard and devil-may-care,
like the true Hibernian he was, kept shaking out
links until he got to racing speed —and such
speed! On and on he flew, cutting out his

A Match at Chickens 183

ground with a beautiful precision which spoke
eloquently of careful breaking and regular work.
But fast and game as he was, he had a worthy
rival. The big pointer—white as marble with
the brand of the old blood, a lemon head —
matched him stride for stride, going with a snap
and dash which augured ill for any dog at the
close of a day.

At length the white dog swerved from a cross-
wind tack and went bounding up-wind for per-
haps one hundred yards. Then his gallop slowed
to a trot, the trot to a walk, and with head and
tail raised high above the line of his back, he
grandly drifted to his anchorage. Big and white,
he loomed large above the grass—a glorious
image of steadfast purpose, which might well have
been carved from rarest marble by some master
hand of old. Presently the red fellow swung
about, and, instantly grasping the situation,
stopped almost in a stride. He too might have
passed for some graven image, were it not that
the breeze rippled the silken feather of his quiver-
ing stern.

“Out with you, gentleman. You're first, Mr.
M said the colonel, as we descended. In
amoment the “twelve” was snapped together, but
M seemed to have a trifle of trouble. He
muttered something to his friend, dropped a shell,
picked it up, and showed a slightly heightened

184 The Grouse Family

color. The colonel solemnly winked a wicked
eye, but made no comment, so we marched toward
the pointer, the team walking close behind.

M carried his gun over his shoulder with
the guard upward, his hand clenched on the grip.
It was a big ten-gauge, and by the finish of it an
expensive arm, and by a famous American firm.
To be candid, the combination looked decidedly
formidable. The method of carrying, while a
common one among chicken shooters, was to me
a novelty, and I wondered what sort of a wrist
the man had who would whirl such a gun to the
firing position. Subsequent experience proved the
trick to be very easy, but it has the decidedly bad
tendency to make a man undershoot a swiftly
rising bird.

Somewhat to my surprise, M stopped when
within a couple of yards of the dog, and set him-
self as a man will when at score. Glancing ahead,
I saw a small upright object which looked exactly
like a striped gopher erect upon his haunches.
Presently another and another defined themselves
among the grass, and I realized that a number
of chickens were squatting within a zone of about
twenty yards.

“ Burr-urr!” up went a thing as big as a hen,
but it sped away at a very fair rate. Instantly
M ’s gun was levelled, but instead of the ex-
pected prompt report, he held on and on, till it

A Match at Chickens 185

seemed he never would shoot. At last the big
gun roared, the chicken went down like a wet
rag, and I also “tumbled” to something! This
man understood the game, he knew he had a hard-
shooting gun, and he had faced the traps. Still,
his method lacked finish, and all things consid-
ered there was nothing very alarming about the
performance, for it really seemed as though a
clever sprinter might have broken shot and
caught the fowl. Appearances, however, are
deceptive.

“Go!” said an unmistakable voice, and at
the sound of it there was a roar of wings and
half a dozen birds flushed. Two bore to the
right, and to cut the head off the first and repeat
on the slow follower was easy enough.

“Good boy! well done, suh!” exclaimed the
colonel, then we gathered the birds and handed
them over. M ’s was fairly well peppered,
while one of the others was minus the head and
most of the neck. The colonel grunted at the
sight and looked earnestly at me, but I could
make nothing of his expression. Again we moved
on, and to make short a long story, we were fairly
settled down to work with the kills even at nine
straight. Three more of mine were headless,
and as we went to another point, I heard the
colonel say —‘ Wish he’d hit one squarely, I'd
dearly like to see what the little gun can do.”

186 The Grouse Family

Still I failed to divine his drift, but the next
chicken brought light. The shot was a square,
crossing chance and, to my amazement, the slow
bird flew straight ahead—clean missed! In-
stantly I knew the gun had been too far ahead,
and then there came the proper translation of the
colonel’s remark—he had been fearful of just
what had happened, and he had tried to convey
as much to me without going beyond what he
considered the limit of strict fairness. I stole a
glance at him and saw that his face was very red,
and that the white mustache was bristling in a
marvellous fashion. M killed his next bird,
which placed him one ahead, and there was no
mistaking his sneering expression as he glanced
at his friend.

On the instant came the remembrance of the
colonel’s warning against allowing him to get the
lead, and I realized that the match might possi-
bly be lost through a bit of sheer folly. There
and then came the grim resolve to let daylight
in abundance through every succeeding fowl that
offered. The next one got it squarely in the
back at about twenty-five yards and the works of
it flew to the four winds of heaven. The next
was mashed to a pulp, and the next would hardly
hold together. ‘“That’s the nght way to kill
chickens — meat don’t count in a match!” re-
marked the colonel, and from then on I under-

A Match at Chickens 187
stood. But M had got his saving lead, he

felt he was a winner, and shot accordingly.

As the thing progressed, the strain of it in-
creased, and finally M missed. Here was a
chance; but, alas! only a few feathers answered
the small gun’s appeal, and the score remained as
it had been. By this time the prairie had been
thoroughly worked, so it was agreed to go to an-
other about amile away. Barring the path thither
lay a long slope of scrub, and near its foot was
what looked like a wall of tall thicket; beyond
that a broad stubble. The colonel cracked his
whip, a thing he was seldom known to do, and
the spirited team sped away like wild horses.

“T say, Colonel/” exclaimed M ’s friend,
“hadn't we better keep up to the ridge? It’s all
clear up there;” and there was a decided tone
of anxiety in his voice.

“ Not worth while turning now; why didn’t you
speak back yonder?” responded the colonel, who
seemed to have all he could do to hold his nags.
Verily, the colonel knew what he was about !

Near the thicket the team steadied, and we saw
the dogs busy over some ground-scent. “ Whoa!”
said the colonel.

“ Hadn’t we better move on?” said M and
his friend in one breath. “ There’s lots of birds
up—”

“ There’s a point—steady, you!” roared the

188 The Grouse Family

colonel, and we saw the white dog fixed and
the red fellow drawing to him.

«“F——_]!” said M ’s friend under his breath.

“Your shot, suh!” said the colonel, bowing to
me, and again an eyelid quivered.

As I neared the dogs I wondered, for it was
not a likely spot for chickens. The explanation
was sudden. “ Birr-birr-birr!” Not chickens, but
thirty-odd gwaz/ stormed up out of the grass, and
in an instant I was at home. To a man trained
in the hottest corner of western Ontario, where
the timber is heavy, this cover seemed but a
trifle, and I felt like Wellington did when he
heard Bliicher’s guns. A brace of birds fell, were
retrieved, and the dogs ordered on.

“TI say, Colonel,’ remarked M ’s friend,
crisply, “let’s get out of this wretched stuff, the
match is at checkens, you know!”

The colonel stopped the team, turned about
slowly, looked steadily at each of us in turn, and
gravely asked, “The match—is—at— what
——suh? ”

“At chickens; that is, as / understand it,”
replied M ’s friend, somewhat confusedly.

ites ul , did you so understand it?” asked
the colonel, very slowly.

“ [ — well —no-o-o! But this is miserable
ground. Tm sure Mr. S don’t fancy it.
Like to see him have a clean, fair chance, you

A Match at Chickens 189

know,” responded M
easy.

virS , what do you say, are you afraid of
a trifle of cover?” continued the arch villain.

“Me, why, no! Anything will suit me,” I
replied sweetly; for at that instant I saw the
white dog stiffen, and I winked a warning.

The colonel’s turning about was a masterpiece
of acting, for he really was in a deuce of a fidget.
Slowly he settled in his seat; slowly his keen eye
roved along the edge of the thicket, till he saw
the white cause of my wink. Too clever by far
even then to make a mistake, he remarked :—

“Well, gentlemen, as Mr. S has no objec-
tion, we'll go to the grass again. Very handsome
of him, I’m shu-ah, as by rights Mr. M should
have at least two tries at quail. However —”

He actually had made a bluff at turning the
team, when I sung out, “Look yonder! Is that
dog pointing?”

“Point, gentlemen! Your turn, Mr. M——”
quoth the colonel, with an air.

Poor M ! He didn’t fancy it and his face
clearly showed it, while his friend looked black as
thunder. Down he went to his doom. There
was no time for holding on; the birds whizzed
for cover, and he dad to hurry. Result —as clean
a miss as man could make.

“Point! One more to even things, Mr. M——,

, looking extremely un-

”

190 The Grouse Family

said the colonel, looking as solemn as a red-faced
owl.

Once more poor M failed; he had no heart
for the task, and a dainty brown hen whirred to
safety.

“Now, gentlemen, for the, open,’ tsaidi the
colonel, and he shook up his team as though
his sole anxiety was to find the biggest, laziest
grouse in the state. He was anxious, too, for
there is nothing like getting a short-tempered
man to try to do something when he’s hot.

‘Pome! sours, Vins . he sung out half
an hour later, and that particular chicken might
have served as the title-deed to a lead mine. Up
sprang another, and it flew into four bits.

“Go!” said he to M , who promptly went
— to pieces!

Never was seen a worse case of genuine gzzz,
and suffice it to say, after three perfectly inex-
cusable misses, he turned to me and said, “ I—I
—give itup. I’m not feeling very well.”

At the club. The colonel, if possible, more
suave and debonair than usual.

“Yes, suh, d00-tiful match, suh; one of the
finest ever I saw, suh! They outgunned us a
bit, /suh; the) big “ten” against! a poore lithe
‘twelve, but my young friend is quick, suh,
ree-markably quick, suh, and that helped, espe-

A Match at Chickens 1g1

cially on some quail which we acczdentally found.
Yes, suh, with pleasure, I’m shu-ah; and my young
friend? You know my young friend? Aw, beg
pawdon! Mr. H , allow me, Mr. S——.”

Three hours later he said in strictest confidence,
“T always liked the English, Southern, you know,
—I always preferred a pointer, got one, you
know,—and Ive always fancied a small gun,
quicker, you know, —and I’ve never lost a match
of my own making, suh, zever, suh!”

As we walked home together, he said, “ Now,
my deah boy, listen to me. I’ve offered a return
match at those chickens—which we woz’? get.
Mark my word, suh, we'll ever get it. But,’ —
and he paused, “you saw that square-jawed man,
with the cropped mustache, didn’t you? Well,
well receive, suh, a bluff from that quarter, suh,
yes, suh, —a bluff from that quarter!”

“ And—?” I ventured.

“Well decline it, suh, yes, de-e-cline it! That
man’s sguare-jawed, suh, he don’t know how to -
weaken, suh, — besides — he can beat the devil,
suh, y-e-s, beat the devil!”

“You never make a match on wine, do you?”
he anxiously inquired, as we reached the parting
of the ways.

“Never!” I replied, laughing, for the colonel’s
face was very red.

“ A good rule, suh,—an excellent rule! Some

192 The Grouse Family

young fellows make fool — but, there, I’ve said
enough, suh, quite enough. Good night, suh.”

“Good night, and many thanks, Colonel,” I
sung after him, then I laughed softly, for he dis-
tinctly lurched — once.

THE HEATH-HEN
(Zympanuchus cupido)

Once a numerous species on most of the suita-
ble ground of Massachusetts, New Jersey, Con-
necticut, and Long Island, the heath-hen is now
confined to a region of oak and pine scrub of the
island known as Martha’s Vineyard, and lying off
the Massachusetts coast. Only by its smaller size
can this bird readily be distinguished from 7°
americanus. The call, love-making, eggs, young,
and general habits are so similar that they need
not be dwelt upon. Scientists have discovered
slight differences in plumage, especially in the
sharper plumage of the neck-tufts, and the large,
terminal pale buff spots on the scapulars. To the
ordinary eye 7. cupzdo would readily pass for an
undersized bird from the prairie.

Owing to the pressure of eastern civilization,
the birds have retreated to their last stronghold,
a tract of about fity square miles. Thisisva
region of almost impregnable cover, wherein, with
proper protection, the birds may thrive for an
indefinite period. As may readily be imagined,

The Sharp-tailed Grouse 193

they are of interest to sportsmen merely as the
melancholy remnant of an almost lost race.

THE LESSER PRAIRIE-HEN
(7. pallidicinctus)

Beyond a somewhat paler tone of plumage, this
bird has little to distinguish it from 7. americanus,
although it has been considered a separate race.
Its range includes southwestern Kansas, the Indian
Territory, and western Texas. Throughout much
of this territory it is very abundant, and it furnishes
excellent sport.

ATTWATER’S PRAIRIE-HEN
(7. attwater?)

This race of 7. americanus is peculiar to the
coast region of Louisiana and Texas. It is dis-
tinguished by the almost bare tarsus, and a square-
ness of the ends of the feathers composing the
neck-tufts.

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE
(Pediocetes phasianellus)

Adult male — Entire upper parts, black, with many narrow bars of
buff, and buff mottlings; bars on rump and upper tail-coverts,
paler buff; wings, like back, with broad, central white streaks
on scapulars, coverts, spotted with white; secondaries, barred
and tipped with white; primaries, dark brown, outer webs show-
ing evenly distributed white spots; under parts, white, spotted
with black on throat and front of neck, and broad V-shaped
marks of blackish brown near the centre of the feathers, most

194 The Grouse Family

distinct and numerous upon breast and flanks, and paling and
decreasing in size as they near the abdomen; long, central
feathers of tail, black, irregularly barred with pale buff and
white, remainder of feathers, white; under tail-coverts, white,
with a dark brown streak along shafts of some. Legs and toes,
covered with hairlike, pale brown feathers; bill, dark horn.
Total length, about 16 inches; wing, 8}; tail, to end of elon-
gated central feathers, 54. Female, like the male, but usually a
trifle smaller. Downy young, very pretty —upper parts, buff,
with irregular spots and lines of black; under parts, light yel-
low, washed on breast with buff. Range — Canadian provinces,
from Lake Superior and Hudson Bay to Fort Simpson.

This sturdy and valuable game-bird is seldom,
if ever, found below 52° south, which means that
it must be considered a purely Canadian species.
It has been taken as high as 69° of north latitude,
and occasionally on some of the eastern slopes of
the Rockies, but there is no authentic record of
its having been seen west of that range. Near its
southern limit it intergrades with the better-known
race, P. p. columbianus, which it so closely re-
sembles that only a trained eye would note the
difference —a general darker cast of plumage.

THE COLUMBIAN SHARP-TAILED GROUSE
(P. p. columbianus)

This is the well-known “pintail” and “spike-
tail” grouse of sporting lore. It is a race of the
preceding species, distinguished by a paler tone
of the upper parts, and by having the toes bare
instead of feathered. Its habits closely resemble

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 195

those of the pinnated grouse. During the love-
making season it holds similar gatherings at
dawn, and performs the same curious antics, in-
termingled with furious battles for possession of
the females. The males also have well-developed
neck-sacs, which they inflate and exhaust like
the pinnated grouse. The sound produced, how-
ever, is more broken, and lacks the booming
volume so characteristic of the effort of the male
prairie-hen. Its range includes the eastern
Rocky Mountains, from Montana and Wyoming
to Oregon and Washington, northward and along
mountains to central Alaska. The nest and eggs
are hardly to be distinguished from those of the
prairie-hen; the young are equally active, and
their food is about the same. At the approach
of cold weather they pack and become wilder.
After the winter has fairly set in, the packs take
to whatever timber they can find in their vicinity,
and while they may be seen perched in the dis-
tance, they will seldom allow a gun to approach
within range. When flushed, like its nearest kin,
it utters a croaking cluck, repeated several times.

THE PRAIRIE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE
(P. p. compestris)

So close is the resemblance between this and
the preceding race that a detailed description is
unnecessary. Its present- range includes the

196 The Grouse Family

prairies east of the Rockies from Montana to
New Mexico, and from Wisconsin and Illinois to
Colorado. Among sportsmen it 1s known as
“pintail,” “sharptail,” and “whitebelly,” and by
many, including the writer, it is deemed a bet-
ter bird than the pinnated grouse, from which,
in habits, it presents no marked variation. It is
extremely probable that this species was once
abundant much farther east than its present limit,
but it has drifted before the advance of agricul-
tural operations until it has come to be considered
as being peculiarly a bird of the great grassy
opens. Early in the season it sticks to the grass,
but so soon as the air becomes sharp it hangs
more and more about brushy slopes and ravines,
or clumps of small timber. Upon a crisp morn-
ing the birds may be seen by dozens in the trees,
upon stacks, and frequently upon the roofs of
outbuildings.

The love-making antics (“chicken dances” of
the settlers) are, if anything, more absurd than
the performances of the pinnated grouse. They
are marked by the same curious strutting and
posturing, and furious battles, while the noise of
the excited males may be heard far across the
open. Occasionally this booming is heard late
in the season, the writer having noted it upon
several occasions while he was lawfully seeking
the game.

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 197

The nest is placed in any convenient cover,
brush or grass, and the eggs are buff, freckled
with reddish brown. The average number is
about a dozen, and only one brood is raised in a
season. The female is a careful mother, tending
her chicks with all the watchfulness of a barnyard
fowl; but in spite of her devotion and the activity
and cleverness at hiding of the young, a large
percentage of them fall victims to hawks and
snakes and foxes.

It has been claimed by more than one well-
known expert that the sharptail and pinnated
grouse are bitter foes, but this I am inclined to
doubt. I am well aware of the belief among
western sportsmen that the one species drives
the other from its haunts, but believe that the
true reason for the supplanting of one species by
the other is nothing more than the closer settle-
ment of what a few years ago were wild regions.
In other words, one bird follows the farmer, while
the other retreats before him. Of the frequently
mentioned battles between the two birds, I must
confess ignorance, having never seen such an
encounter. No doubt a couple of love-mad males
would fight and to a finish, precisely as two rival
barnyard cocks will fight when each fancies that
the other is invading private rights; but that the
two species are hostile to the point of non-endur-
ance of a close proximity, is, to say the least, ques-

198 The Grouse Family

tionable. Certain it is, I have flushed the two
species close together, so close, that upon one
occasion I dropped a pinnated grouse with one
barrel and a sharptail with the other. It is pos-
sible the birds might shortly before have been
driven from opposite points of the compass to the
common cover, but there was nothing to indicate
that such was the case. Furthermore, I have
seen and handled birds which, so far as could be
judged, were hybrids—the product of a union
between the two, which would suggest that, at
least occasionally, the alleged hatchet was buried.
Taken all in all, it would appear that altered
conditions, rather than any unusual hostility be-
tween the species, are responsible for the respec-
tive retreat and advance.

The sport afforded by this grouse is of a very
high order. At the opening of the season it lies
well to the dog, and springs with the usual whirr
of wings, at the same time uttering a vigorous
clucking, which is repeated again and again as
the birds speed away, alternately flapping and
sailing. When driven to brush, they very fre-
quently behave not unlike quail, flushing close at
hand, and offering the prettiest of single chances.
The flesh is excellent, light-colored in young
birds and darkening with age, but always worthy
of a place on the board.

Not seldom, as one nears the pointing dog, he

The Prairie Sharp-tatled Grouse 199

will see the birds squatted in the grass and, per-
haps, have one after another turn and run a few
yards before taking wing. When thus seen they
are very handsome, the crest is raised, and the
white hinder feathers show like the flag of a deer,
or the scut of a cottontail rabbit. Almost invari-
ably the flush is straggling, giving a quick man
a fine opportunity for scoring again and again.
At the proper season, z.e. just before the broods
begin to pack and become wary, this bird affords
sport to be long remembered. I have enjoyed
it to the full, and know of nothing better for a
business-harassed man than a day on the sunny
open with the sharptails behaving well. Like
all prairie-grouse, this bird, rising close, is an
easy mark for whoever has learned not to be hur-
ried by the sound of wings. A good twelve-
gauge, properly held, should stop its buzzing
and clucking fully three-fourths of all reasonable
chances.

Once I spent a week with a western man who
was that rare combination of dead shot and micro-
scopic observer. He was semiscientific, too, and
exceeding wise regarding the ways of bird and
beast. One glorious day the pair-of us had shot
till midafternoon, and were lounging on a little
knoll while the dogs got some needed rest.
About two hundred yards away was a small hay-
stack, perhaps ten feet high. It happened that

200 The Grouse Family

I was using, by request, a beautiful seven-pound
hammerless, the property of my comrade. It
suited me to perfection, and I had offered a stiff
price for it, but, owing to its having been pre-
sented to him, he would not sell. Presently he
said, “See those two sharptails on that stack —
go kill ’em both, and I'll give you that gun for
nothing.”

“Tl take you,” I retorted, and began the stalk.
Contrary to all expectations the birds remained
on the stack until I had approached within twenty
yards. They were beauties as they stepped about
with crests perked up, tails slightly raised, and
furry pantalettes recklessly displayed in a most
unladylike manner. Once they crossed, and I
was seized with a diabolical longing to blow their
heads off and claim the gun, but they were too
pretty for that. From the rear I could hear my
friend bawling, “ Look out, there! Steady now!
Toho! To-ho-o-o! Catch ’em!” and I guessed
he was getting anxious about his gun and was
doing his best to induce a case of rattles. Still
the fool birds minced to and fro, despite my
frantic whistling and hissing at them. To go
nearer would bring me too close to the stack,
while it seemed that every instant they mzzs¢ fly.

Only those who have undergone periods of
nerve-racking suspense can appreciate my sensa-
tions. Suddenly, and precisely when I was sure

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 201

they wouldn’t, they took wing. A quick snap
shattered one, and at the instant I realized the
need of swift action, for the other was covered by
the stack. I gave a wild leap, luckily to the right
side, caught a glimpse of the bird near fifty yards
away, pulled on general principles, and saw it sail
away for perhaps one hundred yards. Not bother-
ing over watching it further, I picked up my bird
and turned laughing toward my comrade, for the
whole thing, of course, was a joke.

He was propped on his hands and toes, and
staring in the direction of the lost grouse.
“Steady, you!” I shouted at him, for he looked
ridiculously like an overgrown, bobtailed pointer.
He laughed as he straightened, but the laugh
sounded oddly.

“You came mighty near losing this gun; if it
hadn’t been for that infernal stack, ’d have tum-
bled the pair of ’em,’ I continued as I returned
‘he twelve-gauge.

“Ya-as,” he drawled, “I came mzghty near
losing the gun. I was certain they’d both fool
you, they usually go off a stack like that one that
got away.”

“How about my little airy prancing; ain't I
quite a mover?”

“You ave quite a bucking broncho; I had no
idea a two-hundred-pounder could be so nimble;
where'd you learn such tricks?”

202 The Grouse Family

“ Eastern woods, my boy, on turkeys and ruffed
grouse — got to skip around trees, drop to your
knees, shoot from hip, sometimes stand on your
head to see under cover,” I retorted, laughing.
“ Now, let’s have a bite and proceed; but first a
health to that sneaking fowl, for he cost me a
gun.”

“ Here’s to him, for he cost me a gun,” said my
friend.

I noticed the slip, but it appeared to require no
comment, so we ate our sandwiches and prepared
for the back track.

When we were all ready, my comrade drew
himself up very straight, and remarked, “I’m a
poor liar—that gun’s yours—you killed that
other bird.”

“Wh-a-a-t ?” I gasped, for his face showed that
he meant what he said.

“T feel like a cur —forgive me; let’s go get it,
I marked it down,” he continued.

I felt something like a huskie myself, and
wished the bird was in Hades, but he insisted on
going after it, so we went. And a peculiar thing
happened. He had marked that bird as only a
man trained on the plains can mark, and he led
the way for two hundred yards and more, straight
to where the ground was furrowed by what ap-
peared to be several small, caved-in tunnels, about
big enough for badger-works. Near these, he

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 203

pointed to a white feather clinging to a weed.
His gun was in the rig, and suddenly he leaped
to one side and shouted, “ Shoot — shoot!”

Something appeared to be slowly moving in
a tunnel, so I snapped at it, and stood peering
through the smoke.

“You got him—shoot!” he roared, pointing
to one side. A grouse’s wing waved in the grass
and some white thing showed at which I promptly
fired, and then—ye gods! of all the infernal
smells that ever polluted God’s glorious oxygen
that was the elixir. Actually it seemed as though
a blue haze steamed up out of the grass, and the
first fair whiff of it made my olfactories tingle.
Had those burrows penetrated to the hot here-
after, and the odor been the essence of all the
evil ever committed, it couldn’t have stunk worse,
and coming as it did, on the pure, thin air, which
drifted from the taintless polar silence, it was a
horror indescribable. “ Faugh!— Let's — get —
out!” I gasped, for I was like to choke.

“Yes, there was a skunk at both ends of this
trail,” said my comrade, grimly, and again I men-
tally cursed the bird. He, however,. was deter-
mined to investigate, and he presently drew forth
the chicken, and no less than three skunks. It
appeared that the stricken bird had fallen upon a
family party of odoriferous plantigrades; that two
had seized it and were in the act of dragging it

204 The Grouse Family

into the den, while the third was coming out of
an adjacent hole to render what probably would
have been powerful assistance. The skins were
in very fair condition and my comrade wanted them,
so I beat a retreat while he stripped off the pelts.

“You keep down-wind!” I roared at him, “or
I'll massacre you with your own gun.”

He stuck to his prizes, which ‘he stowed in the
rig, and all the way home and for days afterward
my nose seemed full of that awful stench. Need-
less to say, I refused to accept the gun, which, to
his credit be it said, he earnestly attempted to
force on me, for he was a man of his word, and
assuredly of strong convictions withal.

And there was more a-coming, for a few days
later we were actors in a truly powerful drama of
frontier life. We were shooting over the same
ground and I fancy he purposely drove to the
same spot. Anyway,somewhere in the vicinity we
ran across an ancient Indian, what Kipling calls
“a silent, smoky savage,” whom he knew. This
day we had what was left of a “grub-stake” for
two days, a couple of cans of lobster, one of sar-
dines, some crackers, oatmeal, and in the lantern
a few drops of kerosene. The Indian begged for
a small pot in which we had boiled porridge — he
had previously begged for whiskey, which he didn’t
get, and for tobacco, of which a portion had been
granted.

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 205

In a spirit of deviltry my comrade offered to
prepare the doubtful scion of an erstwhile alleged
noble race a square meal —and he did! While
we were fooling round the pot, trying to slip in
the kerosene, the Indian grunted and pointed at
something in the grass. I snatched up a gun and
bowled over a particularly fine skunk which ap-
peared to be working up-wind — possibly attracted
by the smell of our viands. If that was his clew,
he speedily lost it, for presently there came to us
a brand of ozone such as no mortal man could
tolerate, for the skunk was not quite dead, although
at a rough guess I should have said it had died
some time previously.

My friend never turned a hair, but went with
the Indian to get the skin, as he started whisper-
ing — “ Fix the grub for the chief.” Into the pot
went everything! sugar, tea, pepper, salt, for we
needed them no more. I was cutting the second
shell to make sure that the redskin got enough
powder to “blow himself” properly, when they
came back, one carrying the skin and the other
the carcass of the skunk. I promptly beat a re-
treat, leaving behind a dust-cloud of carelessly
selected Saxon speech, and presently my friend
followed. From a safe distance we watched the
chief calmly add the fragments of the skunk to
his stew! After a bit —long before the meat
could be half boiled — he began to take in cargo,

206 The Grouse Family

and we figured that he could stow the whole
of it.

“Tf we only durst give him a slug of fve-water
— it might get to that powder and —” I moaned,
for my ribs were sore. Then we drove away.

Let us turn the tube and see if the dust of the
past cannot rearrange itself into some form more
pleasing. Ah! the magic of that kaleidoscope,
the memory. How the bright bits, the fragments
of the almost forgotten, gleam and glow, and how
marvellously the occasional dull bits fit into the
design and complete the beauteous whole. And
how we gray-headed boys love to play with this
toy! Looking backward. Aye! there’s the rub.
Can any but an artist-sportsman, whose hands
bear no stain of needless slaughter, look back and
see these things? I trust so, for in the clean
creed of our craft there are no such words as
“greed,” or “monopoly.”

We were trailing —trailing westward. A few
miles south lay a new trail—of steel, and it
curved away over the open sun-baked antelope
ranges, past the black, poisoned, white-rimmed
waters, that were worse than mockery to thirsty
throats; across the gray-backed billows where the
sage proclaimed the famished soil; across this
continent’s last battlefield, where labor’s sweat-
ing ranks charged home and won league after

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 207

league of glorious field. Eastward ran that trail,
to the crowding ranks of poplar, to the moss-
grown portages of the fur traders; to the rim of
the world’s rock basin, foam-draped by fresh water
seas; to the black watch of piny stalwarts, stead-
fast, awaiting doom by the coming blades; to the
gleam of the mighty rivers; to the jungle of masts
of the shipping; to the white wrath of shoreward
seas, —it ran in unbroken line, the trail of the
king of steeds.

We had seen him gallop in thunderous might,
snorting great clouds of vapor and neighing defi-
ance and warning to the wild, shy things of his
new pastures. We had ridden him on his sun-
chasing course, had enjoyed his smooth, tireless
action for two thousand miles, and now we were
trailing, like our brown brothers had _ trailed
through uncounted years. Behind, beginning
miles away, flashed an ocean of golden light
where the sun struck fair on the bronzy grass.
Before rose a rampart of white, ghostly, impene-
trable, shrouding the beyond from too eager eyes.
It was exasperating. For weeks I had mentally
pictured the first view of the Rockies, by night
dreaming, by day conjuring up rock-piles of as-
tounding altitude, for I had been born on the
level, years before in a land where an artistic soul
had to clear its long vistas with an axe, and
being poetic and restful by nature, I— well, I

208 The Grouse Family

hadn’t seen very far. And here was a fog, or a
snow-storm, or something equally cold-natured,
deliberately interfering. As the Wizard of West-
ern song has put it: —

“We looked in silence down across the distant
Unfathomable reach :
A silence broken by the guide’s consistent
And realistic speech.”

| eee)

“ By gum! she’s liftin
and — By gum! she were /

Like a child at a Sunday-school show, I stared
bubble-eyed at the fog curtain, for it seemed to
shake in a suspicious manner —maybe it would
roll up presently —then what? Slowly, oh, so
slowly and majestically, as though Nature herself
had charge and knew better than to spring the
surprise too suddenly, that curtain rolled away!
To say that the panorama was grand would sim-
ply be idiotic; from grass-fields, however broad,
to the full majesty of mighty mountains rising in
stupendous disorder — peak upon peak, mountain
on mountain piled —is a leap beyond the powers
of that vaulting-pole of all vaulting-poles — the
pen. But there they stood, proud, serene, o’er-
mastering, robed in an awful dignity, as though
oblivious of their ghastly scars, where had fallen
the blows of ages of warring forces.

Above them all the gleaming helmet of their

exclaimed that worthy,

The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 209

iron chief, from which streamed down his snowy
locks, half veiling the flash of his silver breast-
plate, where a glacier clung; and behind, blue
silence, which they alone could pierce.

Somehow, I thought of the old Norse sagas, of
god-like chiefs with shields and helms of magic
— grim wardens of the honor of the North. For
minute after minute I gazed, and then—the
guide broke in: —

“ Yonder’s chickens in the grass!”

In an instant the spell was broken. Forgotten
was the chief, his body-guard of ancients, and the
dream of the useless, used-to-be, and I asked
“Where’bouts?” It was a shocking come-down,
but then Nimrod still lives, while we only read
about the other fellows.

Sticking up among the grass were stripy-look-
ing, gopher-like objects, which could only be
chickens’ necks, and in a minute there was action.

Whur! Tuck-a-tuck— bLim! Burr! Tuck-
a-tuck — Bim! ‘Two fell beneath whorls of shat-
tered feathers, while a hand flew through the
reloading movements. Then a lot rose together
and one barrel did the work, which the second
failed to duplicate.

“ Load — quick!” warned the guide.

Then a last one — there always is a last one —
flushed and went tuck-a-tucking across from left
to right. In a moment the trim tubes were lead-

5 (ole aah The Grouse Family

ing its outthrust head, when, thanks to shooting
with both eyes open, I noticed something. The
flight of the bird would carry it directly between
the gun and the gleaming mountain peak. To
kill it against that marvellous background was the
whimsical notion born of the instant. On it
buzzed till the head cut into the white, a yard
farther, and the storm of lead overtook it, and for
a fraction of time it hung with all that mighty
peak to do it honor—and so the last chicken
died.

And it was the Zas¢ one, for all-undreamed-of
things were brewing which would prevent the
contemplated return to those Happy Hunting
Grounds. There were blue quail and pheasants
and ruffed grouse later; there have been quail
and snipe and everything of the East since, and
many of them; yet older eyes are given to sweep-
ing the backward trail, till there glows a won-
drous vision of a snowy, sun-gilded peak and a
dark form hung with spread wings in mid-air,
as though let down from heaven by a viewless
thread.

THE SAGE-GROUSE

(Centrocercus urophasianus)

Adult male — Upper parts, buffy gray, barred with black, dark brown
and gray, sometimes irregularly blotched with black ; wings, like
back; tertials, bordered and streaked with white; primaries,
grayish brown; tail, pointed, composed of twenty feathers, the

The Sage- Grouse 211

central ones like the back, remainder black, barred with light
buff for two-thirds their length; top of head and neck, buffy
gray, barred with black; chin, white with black spots; throat,
and cheeks, white; a black line from mouth under the eye and
over ear; a white line from the eye down the side of neck ; front
of neck, black, bordered with white; chest, gray, shafts of
feathers black and stiff; flanks, with broad bars of buffy white
and sooty brown; abdomen and rest of lower parts, black;
under tail-coverts, black, tipped with white; bill, black. Total
length, about 28 inches; wing, 13; tail, 13. Weight, 5 to 8
pounds. Loose yellow skin on sides of neck, which during
mating season is inflated into large sacs. The female has the
chin and throat pure white, otherwise marked like the male.
Length, about 22 inches ; wing, 10}; tail, 8. So much smaller
is she than her mate that many sportsmen have mistaken her
for an immature specimen and even for a distinct race. The
downy young are grayish brown with darker marks above and
lighter below. Range, British Columbia and Assiniboia, south
to New Mexico, Utah, and Nevada. East, to the Dakotas,
Nebraska, and Colorado; west, to California, Oregon, and
Washington.

There is something about the sage-grouse which
is slightly suggestive of the bustard family, and
still more suggestive of that king of all grouse,
the capercailzie of the forests over sea. It is a
haunter of the sage plains, its principal food being
the leaves of the sage bush. In these desolate
regions, sun-parched in summer, and swept by icy
blasts and wolf-voiced blizzards during winter, the
big grouse finds a congenial home, for it is as
hardy as a bison. In many respects peculiar, it
affords a striking illustration of nature’s marvel-
lous power to meet conditions which at first glance
would appear to be distinctly hostile. As the

212 The Grouse Family

sage is for the bird, so the bird is for the sage.
Its coloration so perfectly harmonizes with the
general dusty gray tone of its surroundings, that
when the bird, large though it be, is crouched
among sparse herbage, it is difficult to make out
even when but a few yards away. When stand-
ing erect, or moving, it is conspicuous, as a turkey
would be on a stubble, but the instant it squats it
vanishes as though the alkali soil had swallowed
it. In its digestive apparatus, too, will be found
evidence of nature’s wisdom. Contrary to the
usual rule among its kin, it lacks a true gizzard,
but it has a peculiar stomach, which is admirably
fitted for its chief purpose, the digesting of sage
leaves, insects, berries, and the seeds and foliage
of various plants. I have heard plainsmen aver
that a “feed of grain will kill a sage-hen,” but this
is erroneous, for the bird will not only eat wheat,
but apparently thrive upon it, at least for a time.
Whether it could stand a continuous grain diet
without an occasional supply of its beloved sage,
is, perhaps, a matter which has not been thor-
oughly tested. In any event the bird is typical
of the wastes of sage which occupy no inconsider-
able portion of the West and Southwest of this
country, and of the dominion to the north.

It is an extremely hardy bird and able to get
along with but little water, although a free and
regular drinker when the opportunity is offered.

The Sage-Grouse 213

Perhaps no other game-bird has had more non-
sense told and written about it. Even a large
number of western men, who should know better,
speak of it with the same contempt they apply
to that much maligned animal, the jack-rabbit.
Many are the yarns spun about the eating of the
sage-hen by “ tenderfoots,” and of the subsequent
disgust of the latter. As a rule these accounts
are greatly overdrawn, most of them being the
creations of brainy young pencil-pushers of the
East, who personally know nothing of the bird,
its food, or its flavor. I am quite willing to
admit that the flesh of an aged sage-hen doth
possess that sageness one might expect with
advancing years—nay! I will even go farther
and acknowledge the flavor of it to suggest a rare
blend of ancient duck dressing, old moccasins, and
pulverized Bath brick; but what of it? Carved
with a bowie, or a hatchet, it is capable of sustain-
ing human life for at least several seconds, and
seconds are sometimes exceeding precious.

In point of fact, while the flesh of the old bird
is rank and almost uneatable, that of a young one
is by no means bad, especially if the bird be drawn
immediately after death. So treated, it is tender
and no poor substitute for pinnated grouse. In-
stances are readily recalled when it proved not
only unobjectionable, but very good, and this when
other supplies were close at hand.

214 The Grouse Family

During the period of courtship the male sage-
grouse fairly out-Romeos Romeo, his great size
only adding to the absurdity of his antics. But,
mercifully, female taste exhibits that infinite variety
which gives every fellow a chance. The pairing
season begins early in March, and the males strut
with an earnestness positively ludicrous. Then
the big air-sacs are filled to their fullest capacity,
the spiny feathers about them bristle out like
thorns, the long tail is spread and the wings
trailed. One familiar with the noise of other
grouse naturally would expect from this great
fellow a thunderous booming, but the fact is the
sounds produced amounts to nothing more than
a broken, indistinct croaking. However, foolish
though he looks, and poor though his vocal efforts
be, the females are willing to endure the ills they
see rather than fly to others that they wot not of.

The nest is a mere hollow under some sage
bush, and occasionally a trifle of light stuff and a
few feathers are added by way of lining. The
eggs are large and sage-buff in color, marked with
brown. So far as the writer is aware no two of
them are exactly alike, and there is a considerable
variation in the ground color. A man handling
the eggs with warm, moist hands, may be some-
what astonished to find the color coming off.
This, however, is not confined to the eggs of this
species. The number of eggs varies greatly, the

The Sage-Grouse 216

average being about a dozen. The writer has
seen eight well advanced toward hatching in one
nest, and sixteen in another.

When the female begins to sit, the male deserts
her, going off with his fellows and taking no part
in the care of the young, which are hatched in
about three weeks. During the period of incuba-
tion the plumage of the hen furnishes a fine illus-
tration of the value of protective coloration. She
will rarely desert her eggs unless actually com-
pelled to, and when she is closely crouching with
her head low and drawn in, it is well-nigh impos-
sible to make her out.

As an illustration of this, I was once chatting
with a cowboy beside a seldom-used trail, when a
newcomer, an English ranchman, rode up. This
gentleman was a veteran of many fields and quite
an accomplished naturalist, hence a close observer.
The conversation turned upon the sage-grouse,
and the Briton expressed a desire to see a nest,
adding that he had ridden out for the purpose of
locating one.

“You've probably passed half a dozen on your
way here,’ remarked the cowboy; “there’s lots
of them around.”

“Impossible, my friend, z#posszble/” said the
Briton. “I’ve kept a very sharp lookout, and I
assure you I’m no novice at that sort of thing.”

“Tl bet you a dollar you're not fifteen yards

216 The Grouse Family

from a nest this moment,” said the puncher, with
a wink in my direction.

“It’s a wager,” said the Briton. “ I’d cheerfully
give a dollar to see the hen and a full set of eggs.”
Then he carefully scanned the ground all about.

The puncher stared at me and rolled his eyes
significantly downward, apparently indicating a
spot within a few yards of my boots. Thus
warned, I presently made out the form of a
crouching hen not more than fifteen feet away.
Only when the exact spot was pointed out, could
the Briton see her. Then he paid the dollar, and
said it was “ marvellous!” We drove the bird off
the nest, and he examined the eggs, but, much as
he desired them, he refused to take them because
incubation was too far advanced for his notion of
sportsmanship. This so pleased the puncher that
he hunted up some fresh eggs, and delivered them
the following day.

As an object of the sportsman’s pursuit, the sage-
grouse is greatly inferior to most of its relatives.
The young, the only ones worth shooting, are
great runners, and only take wing when com-
pelled to, and once in the air their size is against
them, although they fly fairly fast. Another ob-
jectionable feature is their ability to carry off shot,
which sometimes borders on the marvellous. A
light gun, deadly on other grouse, will hardly
serve for these big fellows, the use of it surely

The Sage-Grouse 217

meaning a lot of wounded birds. The coveys
usually are small, as the young have many ene-
mies, among which the chief are fierce storms,
wet, wolves, foxes, and rapacious birds, while man
plays no unimportant part in the work of destruc-
tion. The flush is straggling, and the flight noisy,
labored, and unsteady, until the bird has gathered
speed, when it changes from a laborious beating
to a swifter, smoother advance by alternate periods
of flapping and sailing. At the flush, and for
some time after, the bird utters a sharp cackling.
It never trees; in fact, it avoids everything like
heavy cover, presumably because such shelter
might interfere with its rising. It roosts upon the
ground, the droppings showing a roughly circular
and well-separated disposition of the members of
the covey. So disposed, with heads outward, the
birds are ready to get under way, in case of a
night attack, without collision or interference from
neighbors.

As winter tightens its grip upon the sage lands,
the birds of many broods unite into packs of from
fifty to one hundred and odd. The flush of one
of these large packs is something to be remem-
bered, for great is the tumult of wings, and pierc-
ing the cackling, as the heavy fowl beat the air in
frantic efforts to get squared away upon their
chosen course. At this season the only way to
get any sport out of them is by using the rifle.

218 The Grouse Family

One day I was watching an old male which had
taken up a position upon an almost bare knoll.
It was before the open season, a very idle period
on the plains; so, partly to pass away time, and
partly in the hope of discovering something, the
field-glass was brought into play. Before the
bird had been thoroughly scrutinized, some fal-
con, which looked like a male peregrine, shot into
the field of vision, and made a vicious stoop at the
huge quarry. Whether or no the grouse had been
watching the hawk is impossible to say, but in any
event he was ready. As the hawk was almost
upon him, up went the long tail, down went the
head, and the wings were a trifle raised. Most
readers, probably, have seen a man hump his
back and get his shoulders about his ears when
he expected to be struck from behind by a snow-
ball. The action and attitude of the grouse were
comically suggestive of that very thing. The hawk
appeared to be only fooling, for certainly it made
no determined strike, but presently rose and curved
away. An instant later the grouse took wing.

Hardly had it got squared away, before the dis-
tant hawk wheeled and gave chase at amazing
speed. It was a grand race, but the pursuer was
fierce and fleet, and he rapidly overhauled his
game. I could hear the grouse cackling as though
in terror, and the small size of the foe was so ridicu-
lous in comparison with the burly game, that I

The Sage- Grouse 219

laughed outright. Presently the hawk stooped,
but, just before reaching the mark, swerved like
lightning to one side, then again made chase only
to repeat the performance. Finally the grouse
pitched, and stood in plain view as though noth-
ing unusual had transpired, while the hawk drifted
away, as if satisfied with his fun.

The chase was very interesting, and while it
was fresh in mind there arose a mental picture of
a remote waste of sand, and overhead a blazing
sun. In the foreground, a dainty antelope going
like a wind-driven leaf; behind it a hawk, rushing
on hissing wings, with fierce, telescopic eyes flam-
ing with the passion of the chase. Behind the
hawk the matchless steed of the desert, laying
down to his work and drumming the hot sand
with furious speed. And on the steed a hawk-
eyed rider, lean and brown, with thews of wire,
sitting his mount as though he were part of the
grand brute, and riding with the crafty skill, his
inheritance from a matchless line of swart ances-
tors. Through the glaring sunshine I seemed to
hear his voice ring like a clarion as he cheered
and urged his wild helpers through the dashing
pastime of the wild, free desert-born.

Then another picture. The grand, gray levels
of our broad land, and from the ranch house a
merry party pricking forth with hawk on wrist to
renew again the most picturesque form of sport

220 The Grouse Family

the world has ever known. And why not?
Yonder, like boundless wastes, lie the gray fields
fit only to muffle the drumming hoof; there are
the grouse, huge birds, unworthy of a skilful gun,
but prime quarry for the dashing hawk. There
too are the lank, half-spectral hares, fleet and
erratic, should new quarry be desired, and close
by are the steeds, swift and stout of heart, many
of them full of the hot blood of the eastern
plain. The hawks swing free about butte, and
bluff, and stern-faced cliff,—but where the fal-
coner? Ay! the falconer? The wizard of
America arises, and in the stirring of his robe,
is heard the rustle of countless greenbacks, the
clink of metal, yellow and white. “ / will produce
the falconer! Let but the social leaders nod —
let one dozen of a certain set say the word, and
I not only can, but I'll ave to produce not one,
but five hundred falconers.”

It would be well worth the trying, for ’tis indeed
a noble sport. Perchance, a few years hence
may bring hawking fixtures where now there are
coursing fixtures.

THES PEAR MIGAN FPAMUEY,

THE WILLOW PTARMIGAN
(Lagopus lagopus)

Adult male, in summer — Entire upper parts, including top of head,
back of neck, scapular, and tertials, barred with varying chest-
nut and black, sometimes blotched; primaries, white, shafts
brownish black; secondaries, white, shafts white; throat, sides
of neck and breast, chestnut, barred with black, except on
throat; flanks, brown, with black bars and mottling; rest of
under parts, legs, and toes, white; upper tail-coverts, barred
chestnut and black; tail, black, tipped with white; bill, black.
Total length, about 14 inches; wing 73; tail, 53.

Adult female, in summer — Entire upper parts, scapulars, tertials,
and a portion of wing-coverts, black, barred with ochraceous,
feathers tipped with white; throat, sides, and front of neck,
buff, irregularly barred and spotted with black; rest of under
parts and under tail-coverts, buff, barred with black; primaries,
white, with dark shafts; secondaries, white; tail, sooty black,
with white tip; legs and toes, brownish white; bill, black.
About the same size as male. The full winter plumage of both
sexes is pure white, with the exception of the tail, which remains
black. The downy young have the upper parts buff and chest-
nut, striped with black; under parts, lighter. Range, Arctic
regions of both hemispheres. In America, south to Sitka and
Canadian provinces, also Newfoundland.

An exceedingly pretty bird in both summer
and winter dress, the ptarmigan is little known to
the majority of American sportsmen, for the reason
that most of those who penetrate to its nearest

221

222 The Ptarmigan Family

haunts usually are after either big game — moose,
caribou, bear, or deer — or seeking the brook trout,
salmon, and ouananiche at a time when the ptar-
migan is not lawful game. Those who are fa-
miliar with it probably will agree with the writer’s
opinion that as a game-bird it does not rank very
high. But it is a very interesting species, and
not to be despised on the board. Those who
only know the white birds, frequently so conspic-
uous in the markets of Quebec and Montreal, are
not competent to pass an opinion upon the merit
of the bird at its best. The flesh of such speci-
mens is dark, dry, and, if it possess any pro-
nounced flavor, is apt to suggest its diet of the
bitter buds of the willow. But a young one, fed
on insects and the foliage of certain plants, is an
entirely different proposition, the flesh then being
light-colored and remarkably good eating.

It has been said that the bird is interesting, and
with excellent reason, for the ptarmigan furnishes
a striking illustration of Nature’s loving care of
her feebler folk. During summer, the barred and
mottled plumage admirably blends with the stones,
lichened rocks, and sparse herbage of the bird’s
favorite ranges; while for winter, man’s craftiest
art could devise no more efficient protective
coloration than the one which would exactly
match the surroundings. White upon white is
indeed a baffling dress. Ask the deadliest of

The Willow Plarmigan 223

trap-shots what he would think of being asked
to shoot at a lot of snow-white pigeons against a
background of snow. A _ ptarmigan crouched
upon snow, and perhaps surrounded by a dozen
roundish, white irregularities of surface, is about
as easy to distinguish as would be a green glass
button on a lawn. And while most people might
fancy the black tail would be fatally distinct, the
reverse is the actual fact, for this reason. Every
projection above clean snow is apt to cast a more
or less decided shadow, and thus cause a darker
spot. This the black tail of the crouching ptar-
migan so closely imitates that the intelligent
observer cannot fail to detect Nature’s purpose
in the one peculiar mark. When the bird flushes,
too, the black tail catches the eye against the
white background, which is apt to cause even a
good shot to hold on the most visible mark, and
thereby shoot below, or behind birds, as the
flight happens to be straightaway or crossing.
Another of Nature’s beautiful provisions, with-
out which the bird could not exist in many of
its present haunts, is what I will term the snow-
shoe foot. During the short summer of the
North the foot is almost bare, but in winter it is
thickly covered with a growth of hairlike feath-
ers, which not only protects the toes from deadly
cold, but forms a veritable snow-shoe to support

the plump body. A slim-toed, barelegged bird

224 The Ptarmigan Family

of equal weight could not walk two steps in deep,
dry snow, over which this small snow-shoer can
trot with impunity. Other notable wearers of
snow-shoes are the Arctic hare and fox, and that
strange cat, the snow-leopard. The only salva-
tion of the hare is its feet, while the fox and leop-
ard have coats to match the snow, and the snow-
shoe foot to enable them to capture the prey
without which they could not exist. The polar
bear and the wolf and dog of the North show
something of the same provision, which 1s also
found in the feet of certain fur-bearers. A differ-
ent, but equally useful, contrivance is found in
the spreading feet of those snow-defiers, the
moose, caribou, and musk-ox.

And Nature, as if realizing the perils of the
ptarmigan asleep, has taught it to plunge beneath
the cold drifts to escape the cold, and to fy az,
not walk to, the chosen drift, so that there will be
no telltale trail for some keen nose to follow to
the sleeping-place. And this the bird invariably
does, going at speed and butting its way into the
snow, leaving never a print to betray its retreat,
from which it /es forth in the morning. The
game of life and death is interestingly played up
North — where the weak white snow-shoers are
ever hiding from the strong white snow-shoers
forever searching over a field of baffling, ice-
bound white. Brute noses are keen as the icy

The Willow Ptarmigan 225

air, and for months the grave problem before
every creature is how best to fill its belly; but
unless the questing nose chances upon the hole
made by the ptarmigan on entering the snow,
and the direct body-scent of the hidden bird, it
may despairingly sniff the cold trail of many
snow-shoes, and whine and turn away.

The love-making of the ptarmigan is not unlike
that of the Canada grouse, or “ spruce-partridge.”
The males, with their plumage changing from
white to the handsome summer dress, strut with
all the pomposity of their kind. The red combs
over the eyes are swollen and very conspicuous,
as the bird struts with head thrown far back, tail
raised and spread, and wings trailing. Presently
he leaps into the air, raises himself higher and
higher with a vigorous flapping, then sails on set
wings through a descending spiral, which brings
him back to his starting-point. While thus
a-wing, he utters a curt, gruff challenge, oft re-
peated, a defiance to all rivals. Again he struts,
and again goes into the air, frequently to see
male after male arise from near-by stations. While
so occupied the birds make considerable noise,
the bark-like challenge and other calls being
heard for some distance. Meanwhile, the females
loiter about in the cover, admiring the efforts of
the males, and gradually acknowledging their
charms. The inevitable battles follow — spirited

226 The Ptarmigan Family

encounters, in which many hard knocks are
given, and much pretty plumage marred, until the
weaker have been well whipped.

The question of supremacy is settled about the
middle of May, and the victors select their mates
and proceed to the building of the carelessly con-
structed nest, which is a trifling hollow in the
ground, lined with a little grass and a few leaves.
The eggs vary in shape and markings, the most
common type being a buff ground with irregular,
darker freckling and mottling. Very seldom are
two alike, and the average number is about nine,
although four or five more are not unusual. They
are hatched in seventeen or eighteen days. The
chicks are very pretty and active, forsaking the
nest shortly after leaving the shell. Only one
brood is raised in a season; but if the first lot of
eggs be taken, or destroyed, the female will lay
again.

The male ptarmigan differs from his kin, near
and remote, by being a constant mate and de-
voted father. While the hen is sitting, he hangs
about the nest, and will almost give battle in her
defence. She, too, is courageous, and not unfre-
quently will submit to being touched, or captured,
rather than desert her charge. Both parents care
for the young, and their devotion is very pretty,
as either will take almost any risk in their
anxiety for the chicks. The young are hardy,

The Willow Ptarmigan 227

unless exposed to too much wet, which they can-
not stand.

The worst foes of the ptarmigan are the Indians
and itsquimaux, who rob the nests and snare
immense numbers of the mature birds while they
are on their partial migration, which merely is a
shifting from the almost bare summer ranges to
the forested valleys and lowlands. Before mov-
ing, the various broods unite and form huge
packs which travel mainly on foot. The Indians,
knowing this, erect brush hurdles across the
route and in the brush set snares, which take
thousands of the travelling birds. Another
method, of which the writer has heard the fur-
traders. speak, but which he has not seen em-
ployed, is the luring of the jealous male within
reach of a hand net, by means of a roughly
stuffed skin of a male in proper plumage. Ac-
cording to the tales told in the Hudson Bay
Company’s posts, the male ptarmigan will
promptly attack the dummy, his hate of it being
so o’ermastering as to cause him to forget all
about his own safety. The number of these
birds destroyed each season is enormous, but it
must be remembered that both Indians and
whites of the bleak North only take them for
food, which is far too precious ever to be wasted.
Until a few years ago, comparatively little shoot-
ing was indulged in except by a few military men

228 The Ptarmigan Family

and the officers of the fur company. But of late
many settlers have invaded the once lonely
ranges, and the destruction has, as a natural con-
sequence, been vastly increased.

Scientists claim that the ptarmigan is in a con-
tinuous state of moult, and the writer is inclined
to this belief, as he cannot recall the handling
of a specimen which did not somewhere show
imperfectly developed feathers. The late winter
birds naturally showed least trace of it, but the
skinning of specimen after specimen in the win-
ter dress betrayed the correctness of the scien-
tific view. The process of changing from the
white to the summer plumage is a gradual one,
it being no uncommon thing to see every phase
of it among the birds of one small area. Some
will show a few darker feathers on the neck,
others look not unlike small-pile game-fowl,
while others again are piebald. The autumnal
change to the white is much more abrupt. The
writer once went to the wilds of Quebec in quest
of specimens for mounting, and the best he could
get showed only a trifle of white on the lower
parts. About two weeks later he received a
number of very fair white birds from the same
grounds which had failed to show him a speci-
men. That the plumage had changed in that
time only corroborated the statements of the resi-
dents, who had promised plenty of white birds
within a couple of weeks.

A Try for Ptarmigan , 229

A TRY FOR PTARMIGAN

We were in the caribou country. Far north,
wrapped in his white shroud, lay Mistassini,
sleeping through the long, white silence until
Wa-Wa called him. Nearer, to the left, lay the
Big Flat Water, drowsing under a pallid coverlid
a fathom thick. Over all sprang an arch of
mysterious gray that seemed to draw in and
narrow slowly, steadily, silently, while we looked.
Far as we could see, stretching in one soundless
cordon until they dwindled in the distance to
mere mounds, stood what had been sturdy coni-
fers. Now they were tents, drear domes of death
they seemed, pitched there by the army of the
Arctic for a bitter bivouac. We stood before the
small cabin and looked eastward. No sign of
the sun, although he had been up an hour. Some-
where behind the sad gray veil he was shining
with the wonderful brilliancy of the North, but
that day he would cast no velvet shadows for us.

“Well, wot ye tink?” inquired Joe.

I hardly knew what to say. Something in the
feel of the air, in the pervading grayness, coun-
selled caution; yet here was the last day of my
leave, and as yet the twelve-gauge had not spoken
to the game I particularly desired, the ptarmigan
in its full winter plumage.

Joe waited with all the patience of the Indian

230 . The Ptarmigan Family

cross which browned his skin and blackened his
long, straight hair. What de thought of the pros-
pect did not matter, nor would he tell; his kind
never do until it is all over. All he wanted out
of me was a decision one way or the other. If I
said “Go,” he would lead away north without a
word of comment; if I said “ No,” he would merely
go into the cabin and lie and smoke. Perhaps
toward night he might say, “ We'd best gone.”

He was a picturesque-looking tramp in the gay
garb of the lumberman. How much he had on
underneath I could only guess, but it was quite
enough to spoil the outline of what was naturally
a beautiful, leanly strong figure. On his head,
six feet from his heels, was a shocking bad hat, a
black felt he had picked up somewhere. Bad as
it was, it stuck on and shaded his eyes. His long
hair protected his ears and that was sufficient.
Only his small, narrow feet were Indian. They
were hidden in as pretty a pair of moccasins as
I had seen. But a glance at his face told the
story. Somewhere not far back in Joe’s pedigree
lay the cross, and in this case the blending of the
blood of the indomitable voyageur with that of
the redskin had produced a grand man, — game,
untiring, wizard of woodland, a child till the hot
blood was roused, an Indian when the devil was
unchained.

For a few moments I hesitated. If I could

A Try for Ptarmigan 231

only translate the flash of the wonderful aborigi-
nal eyes, or guess what lay behind the mystical
bronze mask,—but that was impossible. Once
more my eyes turned northward. The grayness
seemed a trifle paler, and a puff of air, keen as
ietrom) the very pole, met me: “looks like
snow — too cold to snow,” I muttered, then added
louder : —

Well try it.’

The black eyes twinkled an instant with an
indescribable flash, then he turned into the cabin.
As I followed I heard him give utterance to a
peculiar low grunt, which might have meant any-
thing or nothing. I would have given a deal to
have been able to translate it, for beyond question
my decision had raised or lowered his estimation
of my woodcraft and general qualifications. I
acquired wisdom later.

Within five minutes we were ready. Joe had
carefully watched the flask, sandwich, shells, and
tobacco go into my pockets, and again had
grunted softly when I examined my match-box.
Then without a word he led the way on the
creaking, netted shoes which alone rendered walk-
ing a possibility. He was a mighty pace-maker.
Snow-shoeing is the hardest of hard work, and
Joe certainly showed me all there was in it.
Before half a mile had been covered he had
me fumbling at the unruly button at my throat;

232 The Ptarmigan Family

and by the time a mile lay behind my forehead
was damp, in spite of an air that nipped like a
mink-trap. At length we reached the edge of a
tongue of fir woods, where Joe paused. Before,
spread a mile-broad open, where some old fire
had bitten to the bone. In summer this was an
artistic waste of lichened rocks, with low, lean
scrub between; now it spread like a frozen sea
with stiffened billows half buried in purest snow.
For minutes he stood, reading the sign as a hound
reads the air, his eyes scanning every yard of
white from his feet to the irregular sky line.

“Mebbe car’boo,” he muttered, as he rolled his
eyes toward a slight depression which I should
have passed by. Then he stooped and thrust his
hand into the snow.

“ Big bull — old,” was all the comment he made
as he straightened up and again led the way.

Evidently the open had no attraction for him,
for he swung off to the right, keeping along the
edge of the cover. Here what breeze there was
had full sweep, and it nipped keenly at the nose,
cheeks, and chin. Already my heavy mustache
was burdened with ice, and a certain caution about
breathing had developed. But Joe did not appear
to bother about trifles like that, although his
bronzed face did show a warmth of color. His
steady, remorseless gait never changed, and the
rear view of him suggested that he was apt to go

A Try for Plarmigan 233

on till spring. Nor was the shoeing easy. The
old snow-shoer will understand what the condi-
tions meant, and while I was in very fair form
and no mean performer across country, I thor-
oughly realized that there was an iron man
ahead. This, too, while merely following a pace-
maker —a very different matter from leading.

It was, perhaps, an hour later when he halted
and blew a great cloud of steam from his lips.
I understood, and at once produced the flask and
poured him a fair measure into the metal cup.
The good stuff fairly fell into him; but an Ind-
ian’s an Indian.

“You no take?” he queried, while a surprised
expression flitted across the chasm which had
entombed his share.

“Bad for eyes—snow bad enough now,” I
retorted, as I put away the flask, for Joe’s eyes
seemed to say that if I didn’t intend to take any,
he might as well have my share. But that was
not in order.

Instead of moving forward, he smiled and
pointed at the snow. “Thur,” was all he said.

I looked and saw one, two, three—a dozen
tiny trails, as though elfin snow-shoers had passed
that way. They were queer little tracks, round-
ish, indistinct, running in single lines, the rear
rim of one almost overlapping the fore rim of an-

other. Never had I beheld the like. By the

234 The Ptarmigan Family

size of them their makers should have been of
considerable weight, yet they barely dented the
snow. Their arrangement was grouse-like, and
in a moment I had it. Nothing but the wonder-
ful snow-shoe foot of the ptarmigan could leave
a trail like that.

“ Snow-grouse — white — eh?” I asked.

He nodded.

“ Fresh —where’bouts?” I continued.

“ Look — look lot,” he replied.

A twinkle in his eye warned me that I had
better be mighty careful, and I felt certain he
had already seen the birds. But where? Stand-
ing perfectly still, I first scanned the snowy trees.
Nothing there. Then, remembering the ways of
the quail and how many times I had detected
birds upon the ground ahead of the dogs, I be-
gan a close scrutiny of the snow a few yards
ahead. Presently a shiny ebon point caught my
eye, then a dull point equally black, then —as if
my eyes had suddenly become properly focussed
—I made out the soft, white, pigeonlike form of
a ptarmigan crouched upon the snow. Then an-
other and another showed, until I could plainly
see seven birds in all. They were about eight to
ten yards distant, and as motionless as so many
snowballs, which they greatly resembled.

My right hand rose slowly to my frosted chops,
teeth seized the point of the heavy mitten, and

A Try for Ptarmigan 235

the bare hand slipped forth and closed upon the
grip. Very promptly the grip of the North
closed upon the steaming hand, which in five
seconds acknowledged the nip of the air and the
apparently red-hot touch of metal. Then I let
the mitten fall from my mouth.

Purr-r —whir-r— burr! The white forms
rose something like quail, but lacking the hollow
thunder and impetuous dash of the brave brown
bird. Even as the gun leaped to shoulder I real-
ized that the white ghosts were not going so fast,
but, true to old quail training, the trigger finger
worked as though dense cover was only two
yards instead of a mile away. The first bird
stopped — shattered — within twenty-five yards,
and the second not more than five yards beyond
its mate. Joe grunted like a bull moose, then
dashed ahead, and I chuckled as I remembered
that this was the first time he had seen a “ squaw
gun” in action. But, instead of going direct to
the birds, he chased on with long strides to a
point sixty odd yards beyond, and stooping, picked
up a third ptarmigan which had managed to get
into line with the second. This he triumphantly
retrieved. Beautiful snowy things they were,
with the cold white sparks powdering their
spotless covering, and sticking in the hairlike
texture of the poor little snow-shoes. Two were
perfect for mounting, and even the shattered one

236 The Ptarmigan Family

might, with extra care, be saved. So far, so good.
I had killed my own specimens and added a new
bird to the long score of the veteran twelve-
gauge.

I pocketed the birds, broke the gun, put in
fresh shells, and, on the strength of an easy but
clean kill, produced the flask. As Joe took his
dose, I noticed his face. Instead of the custom-
ary grin, it showed grave and solemn as an owl's.
The sparkle of the eye, too, was missing, and when
the sight of a drink didn’t make Joe’s optics gleam
something surely was amiss.

“Vou foller dem?” he tersely queried, as I
made a significant motion. I was somewhat
astonished.

“ Bad luck — kill dem — look dur!”

Something in his voice startled me, and my
eyes flashed northward, whither his long arm
pointed.

Under great stress a man sometimes thinks of
whimsical things. What I thought was, “I’ve
killed three pups of the North Pole, and here’s
the whole d d Arctic Circle coming south to
see about it!”

Rolling steadily down, like snowy surf moun-
tains high, came a squall the like of which I had
neverseen. One glance was sufficient. The white
mass seemed thick enough for good shoeing, and
the way in which its deadly advance blotted out

A Try for Ptarmigan 237

the landscape was absolutely terrifying. Under
such a downfall a trail would not show for a min-
ute.

“Come — guzck!” said Joe, as he turned, and
the gleam of his wild eyes was a solemn warning.

I have run in a snow-shoe steeplechase over
rough country, have staggered home cooked to
a turn after one of those desperate efforts which
fool men will make for a pewter mug, a cheer, and
some woman’s smile. I have been “butchered
to make a Roman holiday” on sliding seat, steel
blades, spiked shoon, and other modern refine-
ments, while shrill voices rang and dainty thumbs
turned down (they all despise a loser); I have
been guilty of that crime of blunders, getting into
the “gym” arena with the wrong man; but of all
the bucketings ever I got, Joe gave me the worst!
Peace be to his ashes —he was a scared Indian,
and he had no better sense.

Only those who have chased a smoke-tanned
fire-water worshipper on snow-shoes about two
jumps ahead of a blizzard can understand. I
knew that he knew the trail, and I vowed that if
he lost me it was my fault. All I could see was
his dim back rising and falling in mighty effort —
then we ran for it in dead earnest. No picking
of path — no anything but chase—chase —chase.
He never hesitated nor slackened, and all the
while the snow thickened and the wind shouted

238 The Plarmigan Family

louder and louder at the death-song. At last,
with a roar and a wild horizontal rush of snow,
the full strength of the storm struck us. Then
we heard the true howl of the “White Wolf of
the North” as the men in igloes hear it when the
sea solidifies. Mercifully it was at our backs —
any other point would have meant—but there’s
cold comfort in that! I knew that if Joe once got
out of sight I might be found frappéed when the
springtime came; and winters are long on the
North Shore. Besides, I had things to attend to
later, my people to see, and my ptarmigan to
mount; so I chased on. And ever before me
was the snowy back, ever in my ears the White
Wolf's howl, and in my breast the tortured engine
pumping to bursting strain. I cursed the ham-
pering clothes and the buttons that seemed ever
drawing tighter, the thongs that cut deep now,
and the nets that had to be swung true while
they felt like lead to the feet.

At last came the blessed “second wind,” and
none too soon, for it found me rocking. The
snow-padded back was ten yards ahead now, ris-
ing and falling with the same old motion. Ever
and anon a savage swirl would hide it in a blur
of white, but I was going easier and felt I could
close the gap at will. Presently it vanished, and
on the instant of its disappearance I realized my
danger and spurted vigorously. Before I had

A Try for Ptarmigan 239

time to think Joe was again in view, and I men-
tally vowed that not for my life would I let him
out of my sight. Indian-like, he had no idea of
halting or looking round to see how I fared. I
was to follow —if I failed to do so, that was my
affair. When an Indian gets scared he’s the
worst scared thing imaginable; and Joe was going
to the cabin by the shortest route. If I failed to
make it, he’d hunt for me—after the weather
cleared.

Through the roar and the whine and the fog of
it all we pounded ahead. First a faint, uneasy
dread took hold of me. Did Joe know whither
he was drifting? Had his instinct for once
failed? We seemed to have covered an awfully
long route. Then another and worse fear came.
I was getting tired. No mistake about that. No
one knew better than I what the muscles of each
leg were complaining of. No temporary loss of
wind this time, but genuine exhaustion. One
quarter of a mile more, if we had to go so far,
and I’d be done so brown that a bake-oven
couldn’t tan me more.

What then? Id follow the trail far as I could,
then curl up. I had the flask and the infernal
ptarmigan—d nthe ptarmigan! And Id live
on them for two days, anyway. But the cold —
oh! yes, the cold— well, it would freeze me stiffer
than the North Pole in twenty minutes, and then

240 The Ptarmigan Family

—the White Wolf of the North would come and
nuzzle for ears, nose, and every projecting mouth-
ful, and they’d snap like icicles, and he’d get them
and thaw them in his steamy paunch. But the
rest — the big, rounded parts would fool him, for
his teeth would slip on the flint-hard meat, and it
would serve him d n well right! He could just
wait for a thaw, and then —a rasp of a twig across
my cold nose startled and hurt me, so that I no-
ticed I was running into cover. The edge of the
woods! Yes, and there was Joe’s track and Joe
himself just ahead.

In ten minutes we were at the cabin. Fifteen
minutes later we had got rid of snowy outer garb,
and had looked upon something that was red and
oh! so welcome. Presently Joe raised his drawn
face from his hands and said: —

“Bad to kill dem white snow-bird. But you
good —run like bull moose — else los!”

I muttered something, V'd hate to say what, for
my eyes were closing in utter weariness.

ALLEN’S PTARMIGAN
(Z. ¢. allenz’)

A very common bird in Newfoundland, and in
the belief of the writer and many others, it simply
is the species described as willow-ptarmigan,

Lagopus lagopus.

Reinbardt’s Ptarmigan 241

THE ROCK PTARMIGAN
(LZ. rupestris)

This bird is somewhat smaller than the willow-
ptarmigan, and has one distinguishing mark, ze.
a black line extending from the bill to the eye.
The summer plumage shows a grayer tone than
that of the willow species, and there are conspicu-
ous black blotches on the upper part of the back.
In winter the sexes are white, with the exception
of the black tail and the stripe from bill to eye.
Its range embraces Arctic America, Alaska to
Labrador, south to the Gulf of St. Lawrence,
Greenland. During summer it frequents the hills,
mountains, and the barren grounds. At the ap-
proach of winter it descends to the valleys for
shelter. The courtship, nest, eggs, and young
resemble those of the willow-ptarmigan. The
sporting and edible qualities are about the same.

REINHARDT’S PTARMIGAN
(ZL. r. reinhardt2)

The male of this race has little to distinguish
him from the male of L. vupestris, but the plu-
mage of the female presents a distinctly black-and-
white effect. The habits, nesting, eggs, and
young show no marked variation from the pre-
ceding race. The range includes Northern Lab-
rador, the islands on the west of Cumberland Gulf,

242 The Ptarmigan Family

and Greenland. One brood is raised in a season,
the members of which keep together until the
following mating season.

WELCH’S PTARMIGAN
(L. vr. welcht)

A Newfoundland race, and apparently confined to the mountains of
that island.

Adult male, in summer — Entire upper parts, brownish gray, vermic-
ulated and spotted with black, some feathers tipped, others
barred with white; front, chin, upper part of throat, cheeks, and
back of neck, barred black and white; tail, blackish brown;
upper part of breast, barred black and white; lower breast,
belly and under tail-coverts, thighs, and tarsi, white; bill, horn
color. Total length, 14 inches; wing, 73; tail, 43; tarsus, 1}.

Adult female — Top of head, barred with black and buff; back and
sides of head and neck, pale buff, barred and spotted with black ;
entire upper parts, mixed buff and black; primaries and second-
aries, white; tail, dark brown, the feathers edged, and the four
median feathers barred and tipped with white; throat, whitish
buff; breast and flanks, pale buff, with broad, irregular bars of
black; lower breast, abdomen, under tail, tail-coverts, legs, and
feet, buffy white; bill, pale horn color. Total length, about 124
inches ; wing, 63; tail, about 44. The autumn plumage is
grayer, that of winter, white.

THE WHITE-TAILED PTARMIGAN

(LZ. leucurus)

Adult male — Top of head, sooty black, feathers tipped with buff;
lores, black; rest of head and neck, barred black and buff; tips
of feathers, whitish; chin and throat, white, with black spots ;
upper parts, grayish buff, barred and vermiculated with black ;
breast and flanks, barred and vermiculated with black and
brown; lower breast and belly, legs, and tail, white. Total
length, 12} inches; wing, 6}. Female, in size and color like
the male.

The White-tailed Ptarmigan 243

Those who, like the writer, have shot on the
mountains of British Columbia and in the west-
ern states, will probably recognize this handsome
species, the only one of its family which sports a
white tail. Even careless eyes could hardly fail
to notice the distinguishing mark, for be the bird
trotting ahead, or whirring away, the snow-white
badge is like the helmet of Navarre. Unlike
many of its kin, this bird is not troubled with
overconfidence in man, but is apt to fly smartly
and present none too easy a mark. It is also
quite a runner, and taken altogether, the “snow-
quail,” as the miners call it, is a fit quarry for an
expert, especially if he be a “tenderfoot,” unused
to Alpine work and the pure, thin air of the
heights; for this ptarmigan is a lover of high alti-
tudes, seldom, if ever, being seen lower than five
or six thousand feet. In Colorado and British
Columbia I found it quite plentiful, and have a
distinct recollection that every bird I bagged was
‘fairly earned. Men whose experience has been
confined to the East have no idea how one’s heart
will thump and the hands shake during the first
weeks of actual mountaineering. Frequently, far
too frequently, there is genuine climbing to be
done, and no tenderfoot can do much of it and
remain at all steady. In fact, nine out of every
ten men are startled, if not positively scared, by
the effect upon them of an hour's stiffish work.

244 The Ptarmigan Family

Half of the novices will sit down and gasp in a
state bordering on blue funk, for one’s heart acts
as though it would beat its way through the con-
fining ribs, and the air seems to have nothing good,
and not much of anything else init. All of this
is both trying and dread-inspiring to the hapless
tenderfoot, who vaguely wonders what on earth’s
gone wrong with him, and if he’s not going to die
where he is. A reasonable amount of prepara-
tory exercise at moderate heights will remedy the
trouble. Yet any man from the lowlands will do
well to exercise caution in tackling the mountains,
for it is quite possible that any, perhaps some un-
suspected, trouble of the heart might cause serious
complications. I cherish a vivid memory of my
first snow-quail, which ran, and was pursued for
some distance before it would take wing. It was
killed, more by instinct than reason-directed effort,
for the man rocked as he stood, and the big peaks
about seemed to rock too. Only a long rest and
vigorous self-rallying finally drove away the feel-
ing of awful apprehension that something was
amiss in the department of the interior, for the
way that heart hammered and those temples
throbbed was absolutely soul-scaring. After a
week or so the same man could climb with the
best of them; but he will never forget that first
return to camp, when, on rickety legs, he tottered
down the last slope, and heard the laughter of sea-

The White-tailed Ptarmigan 245

soned comrades who had “ been there,” and were
wickedly waiting to see the effect upon the aspir-
ant from the East. It was days before legs which
could kill any dismounted horseman of the plains
were any real use, and some time longer before
the schooling tenderfoot could convince himself
that there was not something rotten in Den-
mark.

But, like the others before him, he in due time
hardened to the novel work and conditions, and
then he took his full toll of snow-quail and hugely
enjoyed the labor. And small wonder, for that
particular shooting ground lay high up among the
marvel-peaks where Titans had builded their state-
liest piles, to last the crawling ages through and
prove to antlike earthlings the power of the Hand
which guided the glacier-plough and turned those
gold-seeded furrows, to which men now cling and
peck like birds of the air.

The summer plumage of this ptarmigan so
closely matches the mossy stones which cover
its range that even practised eyes frequently fail
to discover a bird until it moves. In winter, or
upon the everlasting snow, the white simply melts
into the other white, and the searcher may pass
within a few feet and fail to locate his game.
During the mating the males strut and fight like
all their family. The nest is some convenient,
trifling hollow, lined with a few fragments of foll-

246 The Ptarmigan Family

age and feathers, and it invariably is far up the
mountain. The average number of eggs is about
nine. They are buff, spotted and blotched with
dull brown. The chicks are white and slaty brown
arranged in stripes. The mother will give battle
valiantly in their defence, acting not unlike an
angry domestic fowl. But one brood is raised in
a season. The food is insects and foliage, and
the flesh is light-colored and, when young, excel-
lent. The winter food is buds and foliage of the
native evergreens. The full summer plumage is
rarely seen before the first of July, and by October
it is changing to the white. About February, or
early in March, the spotless dress is at its best.
At the approach of winter the broods of a district
frequently join forces in a packlike formation.
I have seen forty or fifty together, and heard the
miners speak of packs of several hundreds; this,
however, is hearsay, and perhaps one hundred
birds together would be a large pack. During
rough weather the birds will go under the snow;
in fact, they will hide in snow whenever it is
available. While certainly no quarry for a “one-
lung,” or a boudoir sportsman, this attractive bird
is well worth the attention of any sturdy Nimrod
who may find himself among the mountains with
sufficient spare time to work himself into proper
condition. The range of the white-tailed ptarmi-
gan includes the high mountains from the Liard

Other Ptarmigan 247

River, Canada, and western United States to
New Mexico.

OTHER PTARMIGAN

Of the remaining races of ptarmigan, which
melude Nelsons 2. 7. elsouz, Turners: 2.7
atkensts, Townsend’s L. 7. townsendi, and Ever-
mann’s ZL. evermannz, it is unnecessary to speak at
length. They are residents of the Aleutian Islands
and are confined to that chain, whither sportsmen
are unlikely to follow them for a long time to
come. So far as is at present known their habits
are the same as those of their better-known kin,
and all of them turn white in winter.

It is within the possibilities, perhaps among the
probabilities, that some enterprising American
may discover good cause for the exploitation of
those islands of the North Pacific which to-day
stand like the broken piers of some mighty bridge
which once connected us with the older world.
When that time arrives no doubt the ptarmigan
will be there, for they are very numerous to-day.
Then they doubtless will pass through that ques-
tionable routine which includes the pot-hunter,
the cold storage, the chef, and the too frequently
outraged digestive apparatus of our Uncle Sam-
uel. Until then, and may the day be long a-com-
ing, it is in order to bid adieu to this interesting
and beautiful family and to turn to other game.

TH Be URE ANN

THE WILD TURKEY
(Meleagris sylvestris)

Adult male— Plumage of body glittering with a metallic lustre,
showing bronzy gold, green, and red, in changing lights, each
feather banded at tip with velvety black; secondaries, bronzy
green, barred with grayish, or buffy white; primaries, black,
conspicuously barred with white; rump, blackish, with purplish
gloss; upper tail-coverts, rich chestnut, shot with metallic red
and barred with black; tail, chestnut, barred and vermiculated
with black, a broad black band near tip, all the feathers tipped
with rich buff; head and neck, red, almost naked, there being
some scattering black bristles; from the centre of the breast
hangs a tuft of long, stiff black bristles of varying lengths;
legs, red; spurs, dark horn; bill, reddish horn. Total length,
about four feet; wing, 21 inches; tail, 19; weight, varying
from about fifteen to about forty pounds. The female usually
is much smaller and lacks the bristles on the breast; the plu-
mage is subdued in tone with but little metallic sheen. Range,
from Pennsylvania to the Gulf States, except Florida; west-
ward, to Wisconsin, south to Texas. Haunts, forested districts.
The downy young are pretty, delicate little things, yellowish
buff with darker markings on the upper parts — exactly like the
young of the domestic bronze turkey.

The complete history of this truly noble bird
would fill a book much larger than this volume.
Formerly abundant throughout its range, the
great flocks have dwindled to a beggarly remnant
which can only be saved from final destruction

248

The Wild Turkey 249

by vigorous protective measures. That such a
bird, in the opinion of many the finest game-bird
in the world, has been almost exterminated in
miles of forested country where it might have
been preserved, is a blot upon the sportsmanship
of our older states. And the same holds true of
the one province of Canada where the turkey
once abounded. Thirty years ago one could
drive in almost any direction through the woods
of western Ontario and reasonably expect to see
either the birds themselves or their tracks cross-
ing the snowy roads. Twenty years ago the range
had narrowed to the big woods of the western
tongue of Ontario. Ten years ago the last strong-
hold had dwindled to the wildest parts of about
three counties. To-day there is perhaps a single
narrow strip where one might strike a trail and
possibly catch a glimpse of a fleeing survivor of
the old-time hosts. And the same sad tale might
truly be told of the best grounds of Pennsylvania,
Michigan, and Wisconsin; there are birds in cer-
tain parts of all three states, but they are deplor-
ably few. I know that some distinguished writers
have mourned the loss of the turkey in parts of
Pennsylvania, but I also know that the grief, while
doubtless sincere, is a bit premature, for, to my
personal knowledge, there still are a few turkeys
in parts of Pennsylvania where their existence is
unsuspected except by local sportsmen.

250 The Turkey Family

Those who know the wild gobbler in his pride
will possibly agree with me in the belief that
when the bald eagle was selected to pose as an
emblem of this country, a serious error was made.
It is true that the eagle can scream, while the
turkey can only gobble; but quiet, persistent gob-
bling, especially of markets, carrying trade, and
carelessly located adjacent isles, is not such a
profitless business.

With all due respect to the bald-headed old
scavenger whose portrait is so familiar to experts
in the line of negotiable currency, he is by no
means emblematic of the true American spirit.
He soars—good! He dares the upper blue;
with storm-defying pinion and sun-gazing, glitter-
ing optic he swings wide and free; afar in cold,
thin air he cuts his mighty swath in the full
glare, and before the upturned orbs of the nations
at gaze. His voice comes down like a clarion
blast from heaven itself; then he comes down
—down to the level of the steaming beaches
where the stinking fish form windrows; to the
sodden fields, where sleeps the ancient kine on
the site of the exhausted straw-stack; and of that
frappéed beef, with its breath like a pent-up pesti-
lence and its udder like a poisoned ice-cream
freezer, the emblem maketh his royal meal. In
other words he soars, but he eats dirt, which is
distinctly un-American. Furthermore, he watches

The Wild Turkey 251

that toiler of the sea, the sturdy fish-hawk, and
robs him of his hard-won catch! Surely, any one
familiar with the policy of America knows per-
fectly well that Uncle Sam never even glances
northward, or for a single instant suffers his
mighty thought to dwell upon those toiling fish-
hawks a bit to the norard of, say — Maine?
Perish the thought that we, the eagles, ever
could stoop to any fish-hawk’s fish! Hence, the
bluffing, but really cowardly, eagle, the stealer of
fish from weaker neighbors, is an emblem unap-
propriate, very !

How much better it would have been had the
emblem choosers selected the turkey. He struts
and gobbles a bit— most of us do; but he
really is a grand fellow, handsome, wise, and (espe-
cially about Thanksgiving and Christmas times)
so far superior to the finest eagle that ever soared
or screamed, that even the hottest of patriots
would prefer him.

In that, alas! now far-away, time when the
sporting blood first began to assert itself, there
were hosts of turkeys within a few miles of my
old Ontario home. Farmers coming in with
bob-sleighs laden with wood, grain, meat, and
other products, usually had a turkey or two for
sale. Then a royal gobbler, killed with a single
ball, was the thing for the Christmas dinner and
the New Year sideboard. Indians from the big

252 The Turkey Family

woods of Kent and Essex counties—in fact
hunters, black, white, and tan, from almost every
township of the western counties — used to come
in after the first tracking snow, with turkeys the
like of which would be difficult to find to-day.
But, even then, a five-dollar bill was readily ob-
tainable for a prime gobbler, for such a bird was
a worthy offering to some revered chief justice,
or other good old chap who was given to warm-
ing his buttocks in the seats of the mighty.

The demand for the great birds worked harm
there, as it has done in all their old ranges. A
turkey is easily trapped, and log traps must
have been plentiful in the lonely woods. And
there was other mischief, for the farmers were
long-headed and persistent trailers of a dollar, so
when they found a turkey’s nest, which they fre-
quently did, they looted it and placed the eggs
either under a domestic turkey or a barnyard
fowl. It is true that the wild turkey-hen, if
robbed of her eggs, will lay again; but the man
who did the robbing knew this, and he also laid
again — that is, laid low for the second lot. The
countrywomen knew the value of the direct wild
cross, so they used to suffer their tame hens to
range the woods and meet the wild gobblers.
The half-wild broods were allowed to remain in
the woods until, from feeding on mast, they had
acquired the proper flavor. Then they were

THE KING OF WILD BIRDS

The Wild Turkey 253

rounded up and every one that possibly could
pass for a wild bird was sold as such.

I well remember, as a youth, being asked to
take some farmer’s rifle and shoot the half-wild
turkeys, the alleged reason being that the birds
could not be caught. This, of course, was non-
sense — the farmer’s real object being to have a
bird that showed the mark of the bullet as proof
of genuine wild blood. Another trick was to
feed a big, red-legged gobbler until he would
scale about twenty-five pounds, then shoot him
with a rifle in the presence of some reliable party
who would swear, if need be, that he saw the bird
shot. Still another, and a deadly way, was to hire
some buck Indian to do the shooting and the
selling. The Buck would shoot the birds, fix a
strip of bark to their necks, and take in two or
three at a time to market. Such birds, showing
bullet marks, having the bark, and, above all,
offered by a solemn savage who couldn’t speak
ten words of English when he was paid not to,
found eager purchasers at fancy prices. This
method, however, as may readily be imagined, was
not very hard upon the wild stock.

The fatal weakness of the wild turkey was the
ease with which it could be trapped —a_ weak-
ness, by the way, which is common to all galli-
naceous birds. The old pen traps, made of logs.
and not unlike rough log shanties, used to take

254 The Turkey Family

sometimes whole flocks. These traps were built
usually on a slope, but sometimes on the level,
and were entered by a trench, cut so as to dip
under the bottom log. The house or pen had
big cracks near the roof, and in the roof itself,
through which light could freely stream in. The
lower walls and the curved trench admitted no
direct light, so the birds, once inside the pen,
could see no friendly guiding light to indicate
the way out. Leading through the woods, to and
through the trench, was a trail of grain.

When a flock of turkeys found the grain they
eventually followed it to the pen. If some fed in
the wrong direction, they presently reached the
end, where they turned and searched in the other
direction. Once in the trench and greedily feed-
ing, there was no occasion for them to raise their
heads, and if they did, it was no great matter. The
trail of grain merely led under an old log and
they had picked under many a similar log. So,
feeding, they passed beneath the treacherous log,
which well might have borne the legend, “ All
hope abandon ye who enter here.” Inside, a
trail of grain led to that part of the pen from
which the fowl were least likely to notice the
trench, and here there was more food. When
the gorged turkeys finally raised their heads in
earnest and looked for the way out, they realized
that they were in trouble. The big cracks at-

The Wild Turkey ORs

tracted their gaze upward, and against these
were their useless efforts directed. Possibly, if
they thought over the matter at all, they fancied
that they had eaten so much that they could
not pass out by the gaps through which they
must have passed in. Peradventure, an occa-
sional bird, falling exhausted by terrified efforts
to reach the places where the light shone, did
actually tumble into the trench and so blunder
to freedom; but the great majority failed to do
so. Not being aware of the priceless value of a
shrewd duck for a low bridge, they stalked about
with long necks stretched upward to their fullest
extent, ever striving to find some lofty outlet.
In this they were unmitigated asses—=in fact,
not unlike some men.

Then to the pen came the — extremely likely
in the first instance —the Puritan Parent of this
our race. The P.P. was no sportsman, and
I can well imagine the horrified turkeys first
hearing his nasal whine of thanksgiving, then
catching a glimpse of his wolfish mug through
the cracks, and immediately afterward catching
the very devil from his unsportsmanlike club.
After him came another class of settler, per-
haps more parsimonious in the matter of praise,
more profuse in profanity, more prolific of pens.
In any event, he and his progeny did much to
clean up the turkeys as they did grand things in

256 The Turkey Family

cleaning up the new acres. The wild turkey is a
lover of the still — not the “still” of quite a few
of his human, but half-wild neighbors, but the
sweet God-given still of an undisturbed region.
The first crash of villanous saltpetre which
shattered the solemn silence of those ancient
woods, was the warning of the doom to follow.
The novel sound of axes pecking virgin wood,
the dull, splintering roar of the earthward tree,
the “heave-ho!” of the toiling fathers, sweating
at wall of rude hut and arrow-proof barricade,
meant more to strutting gobbler and demure hen
than their untrained brains were capable of grasp-
ing. If they imagined that the toiler and the
“turk” would lie down together side by side,
they were right — but, presumably, they did not
realize which side the turkey would occupy.
Then they were easy game, which any Puritan
prowler could knock over on the ground, or perch,
with a bell-mouth of antique model. But as they
had more extensive dealings with the prayerful
Pilgrims, they rapidly acquired sense; in this
respect, to my notion, being considerably in
advance of that other game—the American
Indian. Anyway the turkey presently made the
useful discovery that about one hundred yards
was the proper distance at which to keep a white
man; and he has ever since insisted upon the
observance of this trifling matter of etiquette —

The Wild Turkey 257

that is, when he didn’t modify his rule the other
way and make it two hundred yards.

The result to-day is, that when found near well-
settled districts, a wary old gobbler is harder to
still-hunt than a white-tailed buck. I am not sure
that, if either had to be hunted on a wager, the
choice would fall upon the gobbler. A good man
can run down either, or at least stick to the trail
until he gets a fair chance, when, of course, the
deer is the easier mark. The buck depends upon
his nose, ears, and legs — two of these can be put
out of commission by a careful observance of the
wind. The gobbler trusts to his wonderful sight,
keen ear, and sturdy legs, and to back these he
has a pair of wings which, when called upon, can
render amazing assistance. So, while at first
glance the buck assuredly would seem to be the
harder proposition, the reverse frequently is the
case. The power of the bird’s eye, and the range
of vision which by reason of his height he is able
to command, form no poor protection, and in
regions where he has been much molested he
will be found “educated” in the fullest sense of
that term. The weakness of his present system
of defensive tactics lies in the fact that when
flushed, he almost invariably flies in a straight
line. An experienced hunter, knowing’ this,
studies the tracks, carefully notes the direction
of the quick rush before the bird took wing, then

258 The Turkey Family

merrily “harks forrard,” confident of again find-
ing the trail about the edge of the next big wood
straight ahead. I should say that from one-half
to three-quarters of a mile would be a longish
flight, even for a badly scared turkey; but they
sometimes go much farther.

The courtship of the gobbler is impressive—
nay! mastodonic. He might pose as the living
image of pompous desire. Most people have seen
a strutting domestic gobbler, and the wild fellow
has it just as bad. The masters of woodcraft, the
comparative few who have lain out from long be-
fore sunrise and watched the strutting, the inflated
posing, and, frequently, the fierce fighting of the
love-mad gobblers, have enjoyed a performance
which no other American game can hope to eclipse.
But the man who would watch it through must be
sly and silent as the lynx, for while a hot-blooded
gobbler might be a bit careless, the cooler-headed
hens are close by and their eyes are wondrous
sharp. And even a gobbler disturbed at the
height of his strutting is no fool. Let him even
suspect danger, and his pride at once collapses
and he is off like a silent-footed shadow. In spite
of all their stately courtship, the males are polyg-
amous old reprobates and worse; for not only do
they desert the hens so soon as the love season
has ended, but not a mother’s son of ’em would
hesitate to smash eggs or brain chicks if either

The Wild Turkey 259

were within reach. Knowing this, the crafty hens
carefully hide their nests, and are mighty careful
not to give their lord the private address. In
turkeydom there is no such word as “ latch-key,”
nor would the blustering old rip use it if he had
it, except he meant to cut up and smash the out-
fit. The very last sound the hen turkey would
care to hear would be the homeward step of her
lord of creation, from which it would appear that
some hens know when they are well off.

The nest is a very crude example of bird archi-
tecture, being a slight hollow roughly lined with
leaves. I have found it beside a stump, or log,
and once under a big brush-pile. The number of
eggs varies from about eight toa dozen. They
are like those of the domestic bird, white, freckled
with reddish brown. Old woodsmen have told
me that the third season’s laying is the largest,
and that the young hen’s first lot numbers seven
or eight, one or two more the next season, and
still more the third, after which the number de-
creases season by season. This I suspect to be
true, for it is reasonable, and the foxy old fellows
who told me had robbed many nests in spite of
the law, not to eat the eggs, but to put them
under domestic fowl. Furthermore, the men
uniformly claimed that the young from eggs
stolen when almost hatched and hurried to the
care of a fowl, were invariably wilder and more

260 The Turkey Family

difficult to keep than were those hatched from
eggs taken before the wild bird had begun to sit.
This would be interesting if it could be proved,
but, without proof, I question it, although it might
be so. The same men, inveterate poachers all
and wise concerning dogs, would not give a rap
for a pointer, setter, or hound puppy that had been
reared by any non-sporting foster-mother, with
the single exception of a collie. They claimed
that the collie had brains and could hunt well if
properly taught, and that her milk had the same
properties as that of a hunting dog, which was
true; and that a common barnyard fowl, or even
a domestic turkey-hen (providing there was no
too near wild cross), in some mysterious way in-
fluenced the chicks in the eggs she covered, if she
got the eggs before a wild bird had partially de-
veloped the chicks. While most unscientific old
men are both superstitious and bull-headed on
points of this kind, there frequently is a grain of
truth somewhere at the bottom of their philoso-
phy. Possibly a trace of it might be found here.

Contrary to a somewhat prevalent belief, the
variety of turkey now under discussion, which I
may term the bird of the North, is not the original
parent of all domestic turkeys. While most of
these, bronze, white, black, brown, and gray, are
descended from wild American stock, the first
turkeys to cross the ocean were of the Mexican

The Wild Turkey 261

race, now scientifically known as Meleagris gallo-
pavo, of Texas and Mexico.

The young, for a time, are very delicate, any-
thing like a wetting being almost certainly fatal
to them. The hen knows this, and she is ex-
tremely careful not to lead her chicks into damp
cover, or to allow them to expose themselves to
even a smart shower. Under her ample feathery
tent they are well protected, and she keeps them
there till her loving instinct tells it is safe for
them to move. An old farmer once told me that
he had seen a hen cover her chicks before a
shower which began shortly after he had finished
his breakfast. He was working in a bit of woods,
and when he went to the house for his dinner the
hen had not moved, although the rain had entirely
ceased some three hours before. After the young
have attained the size of grouse they appear to
shake off all infantile weaknesses, and, once
matured, they are as hardy as so many deer.

The chief food of the chicks is insects, notably
grasshoppers, of which they are persistent hunters.
As the season advances they devour seeds, berries,
grapes, and grain. Later, they turn to mast,
especially acorns and chestnuts. As the nuts
of a district become exhausted, the birds shift
headquarters to new territory. About this time
two or more broods are apt to join forces, which
fact probably accounts for the very large flocks

262 The Turkey Family

frequently seen. These “ gangs,” as the farmers
term them, are joined by the old males— now
as peaceable as lambs—and the recruited flock
fares forward, often for long distances. When
very large broods of half-feathered young are seen,
they are good evidence that two hens have nested
together, which not infrequently happens with
both wild and tame birds. When two or more
“oangs” unite then is formed one of the great
flocks, once quite common, but now so seldom
seen.

The frequently referred to migrations of these
strong flocks can hardly be considered a true
migration, although unquestionably there is a
more or less extended movement which occasion-
ally amounts to a partial migration. So far as
I have been able to discover, this movement is
not necessarily toward one point of the compass,
and I have known of several fair-sized flocks
which showed no disposition to forsake suitable
quarters. The fact is that a large flock requires
a deal of food, and the birds know enough to
forsake a failing section before famine threatens.
Being famous travellers where occasion demands,
they are apt to suddenly appear in some district
where the mast is unusually abundant, and to
leave it so soon as the food supply becomes
unreliable.

The spectacle of a great flock crossing a broad

The Wild Turkey 263

river has been denied me, that is, the adventure
as described by a number of excellent writers.
The few flocks I have seen cross streams made
no preliminary fuss, nor did they bother about
ascending trees. They simply “took off” where
they happened to reach the bank, and flew, not
only across the stream, but to a considerable dis-
tance beyond the farther bank — possibly half a
mile in all. The accepted version, which I do
not at all dispute, says that when the flock has
reached a broad river it halts upon the bank,
perhaps for days, while the birds figure out how
best to tackle the difficulty. Meanwhile, the
males do some strutting to encourage the younger
and more timid members. Finally, all hands
ascend to the tops of convenient trees, from which
they fly to the opposite shore. Should any fail
to make it and fall into the water, he needs must
swim, for there’s no other course open, except he
dives and walks out on the bottom, which, by
the way, he cannot do. This is all reasonable
enough. That a turkey can swim for a consider-
able distance I know to my sorrow, for two
reasons, as follows.

Years ago the beautiful work of the gifted
Scotch weaver-naturalist, Alexander Wilson, was
my dearest prized possession. Now the youthful
worship of Wilson was not unlike the worship
of a few other idols, inasmuch as it demanded a

264 The Turkey Family

trifle of swallowing without too much mastication.
I swallowed blindly and bravely until a paragraph
was reached which described the swimming which
“they do dexterously enough, spreading their
tails for a support, closing their wings to the body,
stretching the neck forward, and striking out
quickly and forcibly with their legs. If, in thus
endeavoring to regain the land, they approach an
elevated or inaccessible bank, their exertions are
remitted, they resign themselves to the stream for
a short time, in order to gain strength, and then,
with one violent effort, escape from the water.”

I was astonished! Wilson, of all men, to make
such a statement, when I knew that a turkey.
could not swim any better than a brickbat ! Then
came the soothing recollection that Wilson him-
self did not write the turkey matter, it being in
the “ Continuation” by Bonaparte. This was not
so bad, but still the princely author was wrong.
But how to prove it? Easy enough. There
was a farmer near by who had turkeys of wild
blood, and the river sang below. To get intoa
punt, paddle to the landing, beg the temporary
loan of a young gobbler from the fattening pen,
were all simple matters.

“Wot the divvul fur?” queried the jolly Mile-
sian when the object of the call had been ex-
plained.

“Oh, you'll see!” was all the explanation, as

The Wild Turkey 265

the bird was carried to the boat. When fairly
in mid-stream, over went the gobbler, and up from
the bank rose a storm of reckless speech, amid
which could be distinguished “Git him out of
thot, ur O1'll rock yez!” And the rock pile was
mighty “ Convaynyent.”

“ Charge it to Charles Lucian Bonaparte, Prince
of Musignano!” I yelled, as the paddle bent, but
he didn’t. Instead, he charged it to the “ould
man,’ who later took the change out of my hide.
So far as I waited to see, that particular turkey
did flap along the top of the water for at least a
few yards. The Irishman swore that it was his
best bird and that it “drown-ded,” yards from
shore, the absolute truth of which I am inclined
to doubt. During the next six weeks I beat that
Irishman to the paternal gate sometimes one yard,
sometimes ayard and a half —according to the start
we happened to get. Then we patched upa truce.

My second experience with a swimming turkey
was very different and also very bitter. I had
found fresh “sign” about a forest-bordered marsh,
near the centre of which spread an acre or more
of open water. The proper game of the day was
grouse, and there was no tracking snow. Ai tre-
mendous threshing among the withered rushes
and leafless scrub attracted my attention to a
grand gobbler, which a few seconds later rose
above the growth and flew toward the wood. To

266 The Turkey Family

snap at him was the impulse of the moment, and
he sank, struggling furiously, with a broken pinion.
He fell into the open water, and immediately
began flapping for the farther side of the marsh.
The way round the marsh was long, and before
it was more than half covered, the gobbler had
reached firm footing and made off, running as
only a winged gobbler can. As there was no
trail to follow, he escaped. He must have flapped
across about thirty yards of deep, open water.
Those who have lost such a prize know exactly
what the subsequent sensations are like.

When the young turkeys are sufficiently strong,
the hen takes them for long rambles through
woods, brushy lands, and opens. She is unremit-
ting in her care and watchfulness, her long neck
is ever stretching up and bending this way and
that, while keen eyes and ears form a double
guard of unsurpassed efficiency. The enemies
most to be feared are the large birds of prey,
foxes, coons, the lynx, and such of the cat kind as
inhabit the southern ranges. The great horned
owl is an aggressive foe, especially of halfgrown
birds, of which he takes many off the roost.

Bonaparte gives a most readable description of
the night attack by an owl upon turkeys roosting
in a tree. He says: “The owl sails around
the spot to select his prey; but, notwithstanding
the almost inaudible action of his pinions, the

The Wild Turkey 267

quick ear of one of the slumberers perceives
the danger, which is immediately announced to
the whole party by a chuck; thus alarmed, they rise
on their legs, and watch the motions of the owl,
who, darting like an arrow, would inevitably secure
the individual at which he aimed, did not the
latter suddenly drop his head, squat, and spread
his tail over his back; the owl then glances over
without inflicting any injury, at the very instant
that the turkey suffers himself to fall headlong
toward the earth, where he is secure from his
dreaded enemy.”

This is purely imaginary. How could he see
what the owl did, or what the turkeys did? Those
who have shot turkeys on the roost know how
much, or rather how little, of detail can be seen
even in the brightest of moonlight. And, while
the naturalist certainly might cautiously approach
the slumbering turkeys, how about the owl? That
bird is not at all careless of his own safety; his
eyes are for night service and his ears wonder-
fully acute—— why wouldn't he see, or hear, the
naturalist? Again, as regards the turkeys’ —
sleeping turkeys at that — hearing the owl’s wing,
sailing too! and that wing especially equipped
with a feather formation to prevent sound. And
then the darting like an arrow —no owl, with the
possible exception of the hawk-owl, and that other
day hunter, the snowy owl, ever darts anything

268 The Turkey Family

like an arrow. All the owls that I have seen, and
they number quite a few, sidled noiselessly up to
the prey, and then grabbed it with hooks that
seldom miss. Finally, the turkey falling “ head-
long,” —if it ever reached the ground in that
fashion, and was fat and consequently heavy,
it would stand a good chance of breaking its
limber neck, to say nothing of rapping its pecul-
iarly tender head against something much harder.
Any country boy knows how easy it is to tempo-
rarily stun a turkey, even with that handy missile,
a green apple. And after the turkey had fallen
headlong to the ground, what then? It would
simply be precisely where old Budo virginianus
would prefer to have it, whether he caught it on
the fly, or the first bounce, one or other of which
he would be mighty apt to do! No, a turkey of
very limited night vision, going to the shadows
to hide from a great horned owl, that probably
could see well enough to count the hairs on a
black cat sitting on a coal pile in a cellar, is not
sound protective tactics. Nor will the theory that
there might be convenient brush to screen the
turkey when on the ground bear out the state-
ment. A great horned owl will walk into a hen-
house, or under an outbuilding, or fallen tree, kill
under the shelter, and then drag out his kill. This
I have more than once seen him do, and I have
scored my kill by moonlight as he dragged forth
the victim.

The Wild Turkey 269

The sportsmanlike methods of shooting the
turkey include “calling” or “yelping” and still-
hunting, ze. tracking upon snow. The night-
attack, shooting on the roost, is unworthy of any
man claiming to be a legitimate son of Nimrod.
Now and then some lucky individual hasa chance
at a close-lying bird, which the setter or pointer
seeking other game stumbles upon; but these
occasions are too rare to be considered a form
of the sport. Coursing turkeys with greyhounds,
as is sometimes done in the West, has a dash
peculiar to itself. Shooting on the feeding-grounds
from ambush is uncertain enough to be consid-
ered fair, while any other way of ambushing a
turkey would most likely fall under the head of
accidental opportunities.

The coursing of the turkey is the sort of sport
to stir the blood of a genuine sportsman. Briefly,
it is as follows: The game is given to feeding
from the roost among the timber of a river bank,
or bottom, far out upon the open plain where
insects naturally are most abundant. A _ well-
mounted man, accompanied by a strong grey-
hound, hides in the cover until he sees the flock
has ranged sufficiently far from the timber for his
purpose. Then the dog is “sighted,” slipped,
and as he springs away the horseman gives swift
chase. The object is to rush a big gobbler so
that he will take wing when headed for the open.

270 The Turkey Family

He will not turn, and the fatter and finer he may
be, the shorter will be his first and best flight.
The business of the dog is to run him gamely and
fast, the horse’s part is to stretch himself till his
belly almost sweeps the grass, to drum off a mad
burst of speed, and to mind where he puts his feet,
for a burrow carelessly stepped in may mean a
broken leg, a parabolic flight for the rider, a
few impromptu flipflaps, or possibly one or two
broken necks. The man’s task is to stick on and
yell in fair proportion.

Here, surely, is action to suit the wildest mad-
cap who ever rowelled a nag or staked his neck
on the hazard of a manly venture. And it is
clean, wholesome, dashing sport, too, in the fair-
est of fair fields where all favors must needs be
won. Impossible in the forested East, where
tree boles and boughs only recognize the wonder-
ful human frame as so much desirable fertilizer,
it might be made a grand sport of the leagues ©
upon leagues of plains which offer the necessary
scope, and ask only the proper legal protection of
the quarry.

But the desperate chase is on! The gobbler,
after his quick starting run, beats his way upward
on mottled fans, then steadies to his horizontal
flight. It is so easy. It is true that the grass
spreads like a sleeping sea for miles ahead, but
what of that? He is a winged thing, and is a

The Wild Turkey 271

winged thing to bother about the miserable
doings of a trio of wretched earthlings foolishly
scratching at the grass there a half-mile behind?

The wretched earthlings, however, know their
business, and they keep pegging away, each
meanwhile thrilling with his own brand of un-
holy joy. On and on they sweep! The grand
dog, fairly hurling himself ahead in long rubbery
bounds, the stout little horse buckling down to
his task of keeping close to his almost flying
canine friend, and the yelling man riding as they
of the West ride, ze. like so much horse-hide in its
proper place.

Barring accident to the dog, the turkey is
doomed. His prime condition makes him short-
winded, while the unusual efforts a-wing only add
to his plight. Soon he slants to the ground to
give his strong legs an opportunity. But fleet
though he be, his best effort is pitiful in com-
parison with that of the animal whirlwind at his
heels. This he soon realizes, and, in spite of a
lack of wind, he again must take wing. This is
the beginning of the end. Even should he turn
about and endeavor to regain the cover he so
rashly forsook, it would end the same, for in his
present condition he is unable to duplicate the
first long flight. That was his limit, and when
wild things are pressed to their limit, most of
them lose heart. Still, he is good for another

272 The Turkey Family

shorter flight, but as he rises the remorseless pur-
suers are drawing perilously near. Up he goes,
and flies — this time lower and heavier.

Now is the time for the dog to prove his blood
and courage. He has been going like the wind,
his lithe spine arching and _ straightening with
superb regularity, his sharp snout splitting the
air that pins back his thin ears and hums to
them of glorious victory. The wirelike cords
have driven the lean limbs till they blurred with
speed, yet somewhere in the wonderful machine is
that one ounce more, which only a game man
and a clean-bred horse and dog possess when
comes the final drive. Fifty yards away, and
now for it!

The fierce whoop from behind thrills him like
an electric wave, and mindful of the fame of his
long line of coursing sires, he shakes out that last
link which has won yards of blue ribbon over-
sea. His eyes, which never for an instant have
left the quarry, are blazing with that savage light
which kindles only for the supreme effort. He
sees the struggling fowl slowly lowering; he
hears the medley of voice and hoof-beats; he
knows that his friend, the horse, and his god, the
man, are with him; and like the hero he is, he
throws the last ounce of his power into his mad-
dening task. Three more strides! hip!— hip! —
hip!—up goes the lancelike muzzle, the lean

The Wild Turkey 273

jaws spread, then close with a snap like a wolf-
trap. Six feet above the grass, the long, white
fangs find welcome sheath, and when the tangle
of mottled wings and panting dog unravels itself,
there are several widowed turkey ladies some-
where in the distant scrub.

Two minutes later the horse’s heaving flanks
are working behind a slackened cinch; the man
is lying on the grass and laughing at the dog, for
that worthy — breathing like a locomotive, and
with about a foot of tongue swinging from his
dripping jaws —is clawing himself along on his
belly in an earnest attempt to get closer to the
only animal that would ever attempt to make
other animals almost burst their hearts and run
their legs off, just for fun!

If coursing turkeys be not sport, then there
is no merit in dash and action, which, under
proper conditions, it certainly should supply.
To my notion, too, there might be a deal of
sport in hawking turkeys, in the same sort of
country.

The “calling,” or “yelping,” is not the simple
matter which the uninitiated might deemit. The
chief difficulty is found, first, in correctly imitating
the love-call of the hen, and second in crouching,
maybe for a long while, perfectly still. Those
who think keeping perfectly still an easy occu-
pation, are either ignorant or thoroughly seasoned,

274 The Turkey Family

for truly it is one of the most difficult tasks to a
novice.

Calling is possible at two seasons, but only
reliable at one, the mating-time. Owing to the
game laws it is a method mainly confined to the
South. The few times I have tried it in the North,
of course in the fall, have been toward dusk and
after we had scattered a brood of that year in
heavy brush. Upon these occasions the “caller”
was a common brier pipe with a hard rubber stem.
I had been smoking it most of the day, and the
first attempt at calling was purely an experiment.
We had been quietly sitting at the edge of the
cover (which was entirely too dry and dense for
anything like still-hunting), in the hope that the
brood might work back to the open and possibly
afford a chance. My companion wearied of the
seemingly useless wait, and, half in jest, I tried a
bit of calling.

This calling, imitating the yelp of the bird,
yunk-yunk-yunk, is done by sucking air through
a turkey bone, or a new, common clay pipe. A
hand over the bone or the pipe-bowl regulates the
volume of sound, which is produced by an inter-
rupted sucking between the compressed lips, dif-
ficult to describe in detail. Upon the occasion
referred to, wherein the wood pipe figured, the
bowl was first carefully cleaned, and then a trial
was risked. Greatly to my comrade’s astonish-

The Wild Turkey 275

ment, very fair yelping resulted, and a prompt
response added to his wonder. To be candid,
the note was off, a bit too dull and heavy, but the
birds were young and anxious to go to roost, so it
did not greatly matter. Just when the darkness
was closing, my friend got an easy chance and
knocked over a couple of two-thirds grown birds,
the second of which he did not see when he fired.
A few moments later I got—a smoke! for there
was no earthly use in further calling after the row
his gun had raised. The experiment, however,
had its value, for it revealed the unsuspected fact
that young scattered turkeys would respond to an
imitation of the hen’s yelp, and the information
proved useful later on.

The more common spring calling is an appeal
to the passion of the male. Some sportsmen
object to it on the ground that it is taking a mean
advantage of the amorous gobbler. They argue
that to sing the siren song of love until the hot-
headed lover is lured within a few yards is, to say
the least, questionable; but with all due respect
to them, I claim that this calling has its redeem-
ing features. Fairly considered, it is no mean
test of one’s knowledge of turkey ways and skill
in conversing in the turkish tongue, for where
birds are educated no duffer can succeed at it.
He may elicit responses a plenty, but the odds are
that the gobbler will detect the cheat before he has

276 The Turkey Family

come within shotgun range, or even exposed him-
self to rifle fire.

The typical calling is something like this. The
caller carefully conceals himself (usually before
dawn) near where turkeys are “using,” and when
the gobblers make themselves heard, which they
are sure to do, he sends forth a shyly. suggestive
response. His object is to persuade some fool
gobbler that the fattest and prettiest hen in the
whole country craveth an interview. If the cry
of the hen could be put into the “ personal column ”
of some paper, it presumably would read some-
thing like this: “ Would the large, handsome gen-
tleman with the copper clothes, the red neck, and
the superb baritone voice meet the soprano lady
in gray walking suit, at the basswood stump?
Object, a pleasant friendship and general good
time.”

“Would he? Well, ra-ather!” Being like some
men, he gobbles about it, puffs out his chest,
struts around, and keeps edging nearer and nearer
to the stump. He distinctly sees the rendezvous,
he distinctly hears the dulcet soprano; but he
doesn’t see or hear the evil-minded person who
is hunched up behind that stump, his hands full
of rifle or shotgun and his heart full of murderous
design. The gobbler drops his wings and fans
his tail for just one more impressive strut, then
he dies of lead poisoning and shock.

The Wild Turkey 297

This sounds very easy, but it is not every
sportsman who can call so perfectly as to deceive
the gobbler’s keen ear. A single false note may
spoil the game, while a serious blunder will surely
send the bird to cover with truly marvellous speed,
and he will not return. The actual shooting is
easy, for lost nerve is about the only excuse for
missing with rifle or gun at such short range. In
justice therefore to “calling,” I may say that the
skill necessary to deceive the bird, together with
the wary patience required, are sufficient to raise
it above the level of pot-hunting.

But the sport of sports with the turkey is track-
ing in the snow. It is difficult, frequently down-
right hard work, and it will test a man’s woodcraft
to the utmost; but then, a fairly earned gobbler is
nobler quarry than a buck.

Turkey tracking in great woodlands, especially
when the birds are few, is a blending of the un-
expected with the might-have-been. The slight-
est miscalculation or accident may ruin one’s
chance for a day, while it is quite possible to
follow a big gobbler from a wintry dawn to dusk
and not obtain one fair chance at him.

The ideal day for tracking seldom comes. If I
were to name the conditions they should be: first,
a cold snap to secure every bush pond and marshy
bit with ice that would bear a man’s weight, then
a six-inch snowfall, followed by one of those

278 The Turkey Family

gloriously bright, crisp, windless days which
enable one to see distinctly even in timber and
to keep comfortably warm without danger of over-
heating under pressure. These conditions are by
no means the easiest, for, while the bird’s feet will
sink deeply in new and consequently light snow,
a strong turkey can stand miles of such going.
The hardest task for the birds is deep wet snow,
but this usually means an overcast sky and a
consequent very poor light in any sort of cover.
Most veteran turkey hunters prefer these rather
sombre conditions simply because they are apt to
mean easzer meat, but a fig for easy meat!

What the enthusiast wants is the beauty, the
unsullied freshness, of a spotless world illumed by
that teacher-light from which we learned about
the sparks that kindle under the touch of the
daintiest hand. A sunny day in the woods when
the shadows lie like velvet upon marble; when
the eye can pierce every snarl of vine or far corri-
dor; when the feet are muffled in soft, silent
white, when the crack of elfin pistols tells where
the frost is working at the sap, —surely that is a
day to be out, turkey or no turkey! Brightness
is the thing — within doors and without.

Let the sage of the trail smile, an it so please
him. He might prefer an easier day; if so, he’s
welcome to it. When I go into the woods it is
mainly on the trail of pure pleasure and whole-

The Wild Turkey 279

some exercise. The turkey is merely an accessory
— the cap-sheaf of the stook if you will, but not
much of a stook if considered alone. Twenty-five
pounds of gobbler is a fat reward —a noble prize ;
but to be properly appreciated it should be won
at the close, not near the beginning, of a day.
Hence the bright, still day is preferable.

Put a good man on the trail of a flock in deep,
damp snow, and it’s odds on that he will kill his
first bird within a few hours, and he may get
three or four before dark. He will follow steadily,
patiently, remorselessly, wherever the tracks may
lead. Should the flock flush from any cause, he
will take the direction from the few long strides
the game made before rising, and will push on.
He knows that turkeys fly straight and not very
far, and that the tracks will be found somewhere
ahead. If he be cautious, the game is not likely
to again take wing. Within a reasonable time,
in such going, even turkey legs become weary,
and a single track will be found diverging from
the main trail.

To the experienced the sign is plain. The
maker of the single track is tired and has slipped
to one side to hide. If the man has a shotgun, he
will follow this single track; if a rifle, he will keep
on after the flock. The single bird will surely be
crouched in some cover near where it left the
flock, and it will almost certainly flush within

280 The Turkey Family

close range and afford a comparatively easy chance.
After securing it, the man will sling it over his
back and again follow the flock until another di-
verging track is noted.

The man with the rifle pays no attention to the
side tracks because the promised chance means
a flying shot, or at the best a glimpse of the bird
running at full speed. At either of these the rifle
is practically useless, for a kill under such condi-
tions would be merely a fluke. The rifleman
therefore sticks to the trail of the flock; and if he
be game enough to try for the noblest trophy, he
will devote his closest attention to the biggest
track. It is the mark of the old gobbler, the king
of the lot, and —the hardest to get.

He is the strongest and, from his age and ex-
perience, the craftiest of them all; and the man
who walks him down will surely earn his prize.
One after another wearied birds slip to one side,
but the big track leads on through the roughest
scrub and over ridge beyond ridge. The man
slips after, like a shadow stealing from point to
point, and with keen eyes ever searching the
cover ahead.

After perhaps hours of cautious trailing, he sud-
denly sees a dark object zigzagging between the
trunks, then another and another. Perhaps four
or five turkeys are still following their big leader,
and most likely all of them are tired. Now comes

The Wild Turkey 281

the test of the man’s nerve and skill with the rifle.
The turkeys are perfectly aware that they are be-
ing followed. All unknown to the man, they
have seen him half a dozen times during the long
pursuit, and dark, keen eyes are watching the
back track. The man seems to drift from tree to
Gree:

Presently a turkey mounts a snowy log and
stands, a black, sharply defined figure of alertness.
The man halts and the rifle comes to the ready.
But the bird in sight is not ¢e bird — it is only
a small one. Another shows and then another!
They seem to appear in some marvellous manner
in the very places which eager eyes have just
searched. The mystery of the woods is in these
dark, silent shapes. Still the man waits and stares,
though the water is in his eyes and a muscle in a
leg is cramping stubbornly.

At last, from nowhere, moves a black mass with
nodding head and snaky neck, and it halts and
stands bolt upright. The man knows right well
what may happen within one minute. A sudden
sprint, a clapping of mottled wings, a crashing of
brittle twigs, and perhaps (?) an emphatic “
the luck!” That is all.

But it hasn’t happened yet. Deliberately
prompt, the rifle goes to the shoulder; the sights
line truly on the long, slim neck, —or the centre
of the big body if it must be so,—a sharp report

282 The Turkey Family

rips the solemn silence of the woods —and then
what? It depends. If the man behind the gun
happens to be one of Cooper’s marvel manipu-
lators, there is a sudden stiffening of a grand
bronze body, a great clashing of wings as its
fellows flee in terror, and a spurt of steaming life-
blood upon the virgin snow. When the tracker
happens to be an ordinary man —say like myself,
or, for that matter, like you— things are apt to
be different, although in part similar. There will
be the sudden stiffening of a grand bronze body,
the clashing of wings as its fellows flee, then a
mightier clashing as the ought-to-be-dead bronze
body chases after its fellows, and, presumably (?)
in lieu of the spurt of blood, there will be a
stream of steaming, bright-blue Saxon speech
from about where the tracks and empty shell
prove that somebody stood and shot. On account
of these little technicalities, I seldom hunt turkeys
with the rifle.

But with the gun it is different, and while I
know that where one carries a gun he is apt to
wish he had a rifle, and wece versa, I greatly prefer
the gun. Most of my trailing has been done in
heavily wooded country, having here and there a
marshy opening with big clumps of tangled brush,
all of which meant flying shots at comparatively
short range. A good twelve-gauge, plenty of
powder, and an ounce of heavy shot should stop

The Wild Turkey 283

a running or flying bird as far as it can be clearly
seen in such cover, or in any ordinary cover. The
gun should be held well ahead. A single large
pellet in the head or neck should mean a dead
bird. A turkey, though hard hit farther back,
may lead one an exasperating chase before being
secured, if it does not escape outright. A broken
wing means trouble. A winged turkey, having
its running gear still in good order, is a conun-
drum not half solved. The only thing to do is to
bustle after it hotfoot, and shoot at every glimpse
of the fleeing quarry. This method rattles the
bird, and prevents it from selecting some secure
hiding-place. Once get him confused, and he is
as apt to dodge into danger as away from it.

Of course, on tracking snow, the trail may be
followed; but, if given time, a turkey will work its
way into the most baffling cover and, once there,
manceuvre maybe for hours. I once winged a
fine gobbler about mid-afternoon, and, after refus-
ing one doubtful opportunity, chased that infernal
fowl until dark, and not only failed to secure it,
but got myself so mixed up that only the distant
whistle of a railroad engine gave me a line on
civilization, and saved me from sleeping out in
the cold and grubless whence.

After one has emptied both barrels at a flying
turkey, it is a safe rule to follow that particular
bird, at least until its new track has been discov-

284 The Turkey Family

ered and followed sufficiently far to warrant the
belief that no shot took effect. By neglecting to
do this I once lost one of the finest gobblers ever
flushed. A farmer happened to see this bird go
down some hundreds of yards from where it was
shot at; he retrieved it, and told me all about
it — six months later!

A glance at a recent hunt may serve as an
illustration of the ups and downs and the glorious
uncertainty of turkey trailing.

Morning broke with a golden radiance which
made one feel that it was good to be alive. A
new white mantle had been spread over the brown
shoulders of Mother Earth, and all her trees were
gay with diamond powder and feathery trimming.
For a week sharp frosts had prevailed, and Winter
had set his iron grip upon all but steeply slanting
water. The previous afternoon I had travelled
to the small village in the woods. Twelve hours
before a gray sky had warned me, the message
had been wired, and my short trip had ended amid
the last scattering flakes of the promised snowfall.

True to previous arrangement, “ Joe” had me
out in a vaguely gray light which he called morn-
ing. Everything looked favorable, and within an
hour we had entered the woods.

“ It’s three miles,” said Joe, tersely, as he started
his long, lean legs upon a route which might end
the Lord knew where. As I knew my man, no

The Wild Turkey 286

comment was necessary. That a hard day was
to come was a certainty —just how hard would
depend upon the luck. When Joe got started he
kept on until night or turkey fell. He strode
straight ahead, and he had me glowing before his
first halt.

‘““Thar's their range,” he remarked, as his hand
described a sweeping semicircle. Before us
spread a huge opening — in summer a marsh with
stretches of open water and big clumps of tall
rushes, in winter a plain of white with a soft
mound here and there to indicate where the snow-
buried rushes stood. Wise people kept away
from those mounds for reasons good — elsewhere
the ice was strong and safe. Around it all stood
the silent, unbroken forest, huge halted billows of
bluish gray crowned with a songless surf of glis-
tening snow.

“Let’s ring it,” said Joe, and away he went.

Now “ringing” it sounded easy, but it wasn’t.
It meant the chasing of an iron man who had no
soul through apparently limitless woods, in and
out of doubtful hollows, and over snow-burdened
logs, till you were snow from heels to fork, and
miles of this with no let-up. It meant raising the
leading foot very high over a big log and twisting
after it on the seat of one’s corduroys, and mean-
while finding that certain muscles had not been
used that way for a long, long time. It also

286 The Turkey Family

meant plenty of muttered remarks which would
melt snow if all applied to one spot.

But at last, mercifully, a change came. The
old boy pulled up and pointed at the snow. A
line of tracks, so fresh that the disturbed snow
was just settling, told the glad tidings. Four or
five turkeys were only a short distance away;
evidently, from the trend of the trail, in a long
snarl of thicket which bounded all one side of the
open.

Now began the trailing in earnest. Twenty
yards apart, we stole forward, Joe on the trail,
with me steering by his course. For an hour we
drifted ahead, silent, ever ready, while eyes strove
to bore holes in the shadows under every log and
laden shrub. A red squirrel came out of his nest,
and the soft “prut” of the falling snow he dis-
lodged almost gave me heart-disease. Farther
on, a wad of snow fell through some dry leaves,
and the rustle of it nearly caused the pinching
flat of the gun-barrels in one fierce grip.

We went on, and continued going on. So did
the turkeys, at least the tracks said they did.

At half-past two Joe halted, pushed up his cap,
and spat out a much-chewed cud. Then he
passed the back of his hand across his mouth
and stared sorrowfully at me. I, too, pushed
back my cap, and as I did so a puff of steam
rose from it.

The Wild Turkey 287

“What time do you think it is?” I asked,
merely to learn how close he could guess, for I
had just looked at the ticker.

“Gone two, I reckon; we’d best eat,” he replied,
and I marvelled. :

We did eat, and Joe warmed up, for he had got
what he wanted, though from a very small flask.
We had brushed away some snow from a log and
sat facing, and as he handed back the flask he
suddenly stiffened and a gleam of excitement
flamed in his steady eyes. He was staring over
my head, and he evidently saw something, for his
hands closed upon the rifle across his knees. I
knew better than to move a hair, or ask fool
questions, but as his eyes sought mine they asked
a question to which I winked “all right.” Slowly
the rifle rose to the level till I could see into the
muzzle. Few indeed are the men I would trust
to that extent, for the piece was cocked, and a
premature discharge assuredly would have blown
my head off. But I knew my man this time. As
slowly as the rifle had moved, my head bent
forward till my nose was about level with my
belt, and I heard a whispered “ All right.”

How long he took to get the old gas-pipe
where he wanted it I can only surmise ; it seemed
like time for spring ploughing before he pulled.
There was an astounding jar, a small but in-
tensely lively spark sped down along my spine,

288 The Turkey Family

then something fell over me, trampled me flat,
and went yelling into the woods. By the time I
had picked myself up, a raving maniac was whirl-
ing something black around his head and shed-
ding turkey feathers with every turn. It was a
big, fat hen, which, coming from the unknown,
had chanced to alight in a tree not fifty yards
behind my back. We tramped on, feeling better,
for it was a fine bird.

“What ye think?” he asked two hours later,
when the shadows had begun to pile in the
thickets. My answer must have surprised him.

We were standing at the edge of the marsh,
and we were both pretty well cooked. It had
been a hard day, and only the one bit of luck had
come our way. We both wanted to get home
that night, but Joe, good fellow as he always was,
had volunteered to try again next day if I so
desired. As he spoke, I was looking rather rue-
fully down the long stretch of frozen marsh. We
were almost at the point where the hunt had
begun, and with the light failing it was useless
to think of further work in the woods.

Without a word in response to his question, I
made a leap upon the snowy ice and ran like a
‘quarter horse” across the open. The footing
was fairly good, and I trusted to luck that the
ice was strong, for I was pounding it hard. Out
of the tail of one eye I kept tabs on a moving

The Wild Turkey 289

black object, a something I had seen fly into the
open a good four hundred yards away.

Joe’s quick grasp of things proved invaluable.
One sweeping glance had told him what was up,
and now he was coaching like the passed master
he was.

“Run, gol-darn ye, ruz/ I'll tell ye when to
stop!” he roared, and I heard and sprinted for
dear life.

“Whoa! Yer fur—nuff —rite — top — ye!” he
howled, in an agony of excitement, and I stiffened
my legs and slid, ploughing snow for ten feet.

Puffing, twitching all over, I turned my head.
Joe had timed it marvellously well. Barely twenty
yards away was a noble gobbler, just stretching
his long red legs to alight. I saw the huge
speckled fans working convulsively, the gleam of
the bronze, the drooping tassel, the snaky neck,
and all. I should have taken my time, let him
get running smoothly, and then cut the head off
him as he ran.

I didn’t. I just gave it to him midships, rat-
tled in the second barrel, then ran and sa¢ on
him as hard as I could, and wished it was twice
as hard — that’s what I did!

As it happened I had hit him in the head, but
it wasn’t my fault! The second barrel scored
him promiscuously ; but, in spite of the storm of
big shot, he was a truly grand bird.

290 The Turkey Family

When I dared get off him, I said he weighed
twenty pounds. Joe said twenty-five. Before I
had packed him a mile I said /fty.

Upon another occasion I went into the same
woods alone. Fate was busy that day. At the
very first bit of marsh, before even a fresh track
was expected, a big turkey came flying directly
toward me. I chanced to see him when he rose
a long way off, and there was no need to stir a
foot. It was the easiest and most perfect chance
ever I had. He was up perhaps thirty yards, and
his line of flight would have carried him exactly
over my head. The picture he made will never
be forgotten. Full in the dazzling sunshine he
came, a perfect glory of gold and bronze and _ pur-
ple. He was magnificent as he bore down on
the foe that he never saw. For a moment I
thought of dropping the gun, waiting, and grab-
bing him by neck or leg—I have always re-
gretted that I did not try it. The catch would
indeed have been a unique experience, and I
firmly believe it could have been accomplished.
Instead, I cut his head off at about ten yards’
range, and to do it cleanly I had to shift ground.
He fell almost in my tracks, where I had stood.

Presently came a_ stoutish, country-looking
fellow and a younger chap, following the bird.
They made no claim, but greatly admired the

The Wild Turkey 291

gobbler. A claim would have been useless,
for I had heard no shot and the prize gave no
sign of having been wounded. The larger of the
two strangers said he had often heard of me, and
would like to join me for the remainder of the
day. What to do with the gobbler was the prob-
lem. Finally, the younger brother offered to carry
in the turkey and have it ready at the depot
when I got back. This was an easy solution of
the trouble, so I promptly agreed, adding that it
was a pity to spoil his day.

“Oh! ¢hat don’t matter. I’m satisfied,” he
replied.

He was too! I hunted with the brother all
the rest of the day, and late in the afternoon we
got a chance and dropped a couple of small young
hens. We might have got more, but I had a most
important engagement for the following morning,
and there was only one train to my destination.

“T won't disturb ’em for two days, if you'll come
back; I like to hunt with you,” said my bucolic
friend. There and then I promised to return,
and we set out best foot foremost for the depot.
We made it by a narrow margin, and lo! there
was neither boy nor gobbler.

“Tl go get it and be back in time; he’s taken
it to the house,” said my new friend, as he darted
away.

“This zs a rum go!” I viciously exclaimed as

292 The Turkey Family

the whistle of the approaching train sounded.
However, there was the train, and I ad to take
it, so I placed my gun in a seat and returned to
the platform, hoping against hope. The wheels
began to turn, and still no sign of the turkey
or either party to what was now easily recogniz-
able asa steal. I was hot clear through, and was
just on the point of jumping off and hunting satis-
faction, when through the dusk I saw a running
figure carrying a turkey and making for the cross-
ing some distance ahead.

“Bright fellow, that; he’s been delayed a bit
and has taken the one chance left,” was my
thought as I twisted a leg through the railing,
for one had best be secure even ona slowly mov-
ing train. He had his eye on me and he timed
himself to a hair. As the train slid past, gain-
ing speed every instant, he swung the turkey and
let it go. It came into my face like a cannon-
ball inside of a feather pillow, and had I not been
firmly fixed, it might have knocked me clear
across the platform. However, it was securely
held, and I took it inside, intending to gloat over
it all the way home.

Somehow it felt very stiff and hard. Under
the lights, while the train was running twenty-
five miles an hour, it turned out to be a tame
bird that had been dead and frozen for about a
week! The whole game was at once apparent.

The Wild Turkey 293

The request to stay over had merely been a
feeler to make sure I would go; the brother had
merely played that réle and had taken my bird to
the house where they were temporarily quartered ;
had I stayed, the right bird would, of course,
have been produced. As it was, I got a
ten-shilling fowl for a gobbler which I later
heard brought fifteen dollars in Detroit, where
my enterprising friends then belonged, the elder
being a market hunter.

That happened quite a few years ago, but if
ever I chance to be on a jury, and either of those
rascals is charged with the theft of a Turkey rug,
— nay, even a Turkish cigarette, — I’ll hold out
for a life ‘sentence at least.

An illustration of the possibilities of shooting
from ambush may serve as a parting shot at the
turkey. I had gone to the Essex woods (in
Ontario), expecting good tracking. Things, how-
ever, were all askew. The unreliable climate had
taken one of its peculiar notions, and the low-
lying woods were deeply flooded and the snow en-
tirely gone. My host, a weather-wise old farmer,
urged me to have patience and stay with him, as
a cold snap was bound to come. It did, that very
night, and next day all surface water was frozen,
but not enough to bear a man. Hunting was out
of the question until a heavy fall of snow came,

294 The Turkey Family

for walking in the woods was like stepping on
splintering glass. After a bitter day, followed by
a colder night, the ice was strong everywhere; but
there was no tracking, and the woods were yet
noisy. That night a young fellow called and told
about a flock of turkeys which had been feeding
for days on shelled corn, which had fallen from
some car, and formed a heavy trail of grain for
nearly three-fourths of a mile. The birds, he said,
had found it, and for several days had come out
to feed about three o’clock.

“Go down there to-morrow,” said my host;
“there’s a big culvert will hide you, and if you
take both rifle and gun, you'll be sure of one
chance anyway.”

Things dragged slowly about the house, and as
my host was clearly worrying about the lack of
sport, I decided to go. Shortly after noon I
started. The trail of corn was easily found, and
the sign indicated at least a fair flock of turkeys.
But the conditions were rather awkward. Upon
either side of the single track spread a sea of ice
which extended far into the woods. The big cul-
vert was filled to within a couple of feet of the top,
which meant nearly six feet of water, and this ap-
peared to be the only available hide. I did not
greatly fancy it, but after a thorough test of the
ice decided to try it. To collect a couple of bits
of fence-rail and a big armful of dry weeds was

The Wild Turkey 295

the work of a few minutes, and these formed a
very comfortable seat. With gun and rifle con-
veniently placed, matters looked brighter, so I sat
down and began the lonely vigil.

Crouching in a culvert, with one’s eyes on the
level of an air-line roadbed, is not very interesting,
but when you can smoke, it is not unendurably
bad. My old farmer was a true prophet, too, for
in less than half an hour, behold! a turkey on the
track some four hundred yards away. Others
presently followed the first, and I could see the
lot rapidly feeding in my direction. At once the
prospect was glorified,—the old farmer was a
trump, his friend was another; and I — well, I was
the two bowers, the joker, and the four aces all in
one hand. It was the surest thing ever tackled,
and I grinned over the idea of letting them feed
right up, getting one with the rifle, and then, hey!
for a lightning change, and one more, maybe ¢wo,
with the gun.

Things are not always what they seem, and best-
laid plans sometimes are drawn for buildings to
go on property to which the title is not clear. As
I gloated, to my horror there sounded an ominous
click, that unerring indication of a coming train.
There came the remembrance of the fact that while
there could be no passenger train, a freight was
liable to come along any time. The old farmer
had forgotten this, while I had never thought of

296 The Turkey Family

it. It was coming, and fast too, and I was in a
stew of anxiety. Pretty soon the turkeys took
heed of the clicking rail, and one after the other
they trotted into the woods. Then I saw light.
Of course they were accustomed to trains, so all
I had to do was to lie flat under the cross-beam
until the train had passed over me. It might
be a bit unpleasant for a moment, but I would be
absolutely safe. To leave the ambush would be
folly, for it could not be done without exposing
myself to the turkeys, and I knew better than to
do that.

Long before the train got near me I was down
flat, and feeling content, for the turkeys would
surely come back as soon as quiet was restored.
In fact, it was better to have the train come
exactly when it did, for it added a spice of adven-
ture, and there would be no other train before
dark. I was feeling glad that I, the turkeys, and
the train had all come, when, with an utterly in-
describable roar, and a soul-scaring vibration, the
engine passed over —just over!—my head. A
man must try it to understand what it is like, and
anybody is welcome to my future shares of it.

After the last demoniacal truck had cleared,
and the gravel had ceased pelting, I began to sit
up and take notice, and things gradually straight-
ened themselves out. There had been no acci-
dent, no earthquake, no disturbance of any kind,

The Wild Turkey 297

and the track was intact. I was glad of that, for
there had been doubts upon several points.

Almost before I was ready, certainly before
they were expected, back came the turkeys.
Luck had indeed turned, for the nearest pair
flew back and pitched less than two hundred
yards away. These must have lit upon a spot
from which the corn had previously been gleaned,
for they actually ~az in my direction, and what is
more, the rest came chasing after them. Such
luck was simply overpowering and almost awful
to contemplate.

What! A single turkey out of a layout like
that! Nay,nay! Not to take full advantage would
be like flying in the face of Providence. I'd get
two in line and have both at once with the rifle,
then grab the gun and drop a couple more, maybe
three if they bunched well. Nearer and nearer
they came, till they were at the next telegraph
pole below the one opposite the culvert. It was
great! An open chance like this is good enough,
but to shoot from a dead rest off the edge of a cul-
vert at two turkeys in line is a “cinch”; but to
have a telegraph pole by which to gauge the exact
distance is almost too much.

Two turkeys! Fiddle-dee-dee-dee! Id let
‘em come within thirty yards, get cree in line,
tunnel through the lot; ¢ex for the gun, and
why not two to each barrel. Good old Caution

298 The Turkey Family

whispered once in her feeble, pleading way, “ Best
tumble that big fellow, he’s near enough; then
rake ‘em with the gun, for they'll huddle when
they hear the shot.”

Not at all! Caution zs such a coward. A
game man ever fears— possibly what he don’t
know about. There was a grinding squeak, a
heave as though some big sleeping animal were
stirring under me—then I gave an imitation of
a young man falling through a skylight and fetch-
ing up in the well!

To say there was pawing and at least one war-
whoop would be feeble. The ice could not have
been resting on the water, and presumably the
weight of the guns and myself, helped by the vibra-
tion of the train, had proved too much. It was
cold down in there too, but as I was in, there was
no use in leaving good weapons behind. What
felt like a long winter of pawing finally brought
up everything, and I ran for it.

What about the turkeys, do you ask?

Reader, I solemnly swear to you that the only
decent turkey is a hot turkey. Cold turkey is a
horror, unfit for publication or further discussion.

THE FLORIDA WILD TURKEY
(M. s. osceola)

Any one but an experienced naturalist would
find it difficult to distinguish this from the pre-

The Mexican Turkey 299

ceding race. Even the scientist can only point
to the general much darker cast of plumage, and
the fact that the white bars upon the primaries
are narrower and more broken, and not reaching
the shaft of the feather, as in Meleagris sylvestris.
The size, eggs, and habits are about the same.
The race is confined to Florida. Having no seri-
ous grudge against my reader, and not being
anxious to inspire a wish that my dars were better
defined, and that I were confined to a range nar-
rower than Florida, there appears to be no pressing
necessity for dwelling further upon this race.

ELLIOT’S RIO GRANDE TURKEY
(M. s. elliot?)

Confined to the wooded lowlands of eastern
Mexico and southern Texas, this handsome bird
is rightly considered a distinct race. The adult
male, while in general appearance resembling
M. sylvestris, has the back and rump jet black, and
the upper tail-coverts broadly tipped with buff.
The adult female is smaller than the male; gen-
eral hue, black, with much metallic lustre;
feathers of upper parts, tipped with gray, while
those of the lower parts are tipped with buff.

THE MEXICAN TURKEY

(Meleagris gallopavo)
This fine species, while not so handsome as
M. sylvestris, usually averages a trifle larger. Its

300 The Turkey Family

distinguishing mark is its conspicuous, whitish
gray rump, which might be exactly matched in
many a barnyard of this country and Europe.
Nor is this to be wondered at, for from the Mexi-
can turkey of older days came the domestic bird.
While its general habits closely resemble those
of our better-known race, it prefers higher alti-
tudes, being found on the table-lands and moun-
tains at an elevation varying from about three to
ten thousand feet. The love-making, nesting, and
behavior of the males need not be dwelt upon,
as what has been said about MZ. sylvestris, male
and female, will apply equally as well to this
species. But bad husband and worse father that
he is, we surely can forgive this bird his tres-
passes! Who are we, that, while bowing our
thankful heads about the polished bier of his
many times great-grandson, we should remember
only his peccadilloes and forget the aching voids
which he and his sons—more power to ‘em —
have so acceptably filled. Nay! even overjilled,
as the soda might attest.

The range of the Mexican turkey includes
southern and western Texas, New Mexico, Ari-
zona, and the table-lands of Mexico.

The exact date of the introduction of this bird
into Europe is unfortunately unknown. The
credit of having taken it to the West Indies isl-
ands probably belongs to the Spaniards, who

The Mexican Turkey 301

were then great sailors and traders. Soon after
the big birds made their first appearance in Eu-
rope, attracting great attention in both France
and England. An old rhyme says:—

“Turkeys, carps, hoppes, pinaret and bear,
Came into England all in one year.”

This year is said to have been 1524. Hakluyt,
writing in 1582, mentions “turkey cocks and
hennes” as having been brought from foreign
parts “about fifty years past.” Why the fowl
were called turkeys is unknown, the supposed ori-
gin of the name being the old-time belief that the
birds came from Turkey. It appears to have
been the fashion in those days to say that every
imported novelty came from that country. The
habit of crediting weird things to Turkey still
prevails among certain vendors of tobacco, in cig-
arette and other forms. In 1541 the turkey is
mentioned ina constitution of Archbishop Cran-
mer, by which it was ordered, that of such large
fowls as cranes, swans, and turkey-cocks, “there
should be but one in a dish.” The sergeants-
at-law, created in 1555, provided, according to
Dugdale, in his Ovigenes Furidicales, for their
inauguration dinner, among other delicacies, two
turkeys, and four turkey-chicks. These were
rated at only four shillings each, while swans and
cranes were ten shillings, and capons half-a-crown

302 The Turkey Family

which would suggest that turkeys were then
rather common. In 1573 they were spoken of as
part of the usual Christmas fare at a farmer’s
table. In 1535 turkeys were known in France,
and mentioned by writers as having been brought
there a few years previously from the newly dis-
covered Indian islands. In 1566 a present of
twelve turkeys was made by the municipality of
Amiens to their king. They are said to have
been known in Germany about 1530. _In Venice,
a law made in 1557 specified the tables at which
they were permitted to be served.

A WOODLAND HERMIT
(The Woodcock)

GirverNcoent

Le SSS aE

GaE PAMERICAN WOODCOCK
(Philohela minor)

Adult male — Forehead, line over the eye, and entire lower parts ;
reddish tawny; between eye and bill an irregular, narrow line
of umber; top of head, black, crossed with three narrow
bands of pale buff; eye, large, set far back and high in skull;
cheeks, marked with a blackish line; sides of neck, tinged
with ash; primaries and secondaries, sooty black; rest of
upper parts, beautifully variegated with brown, black, tawny,
and gray; tail, black, the outer edge of the feathers spotted
with brown; tips of tail-feathers, buffish above, white below;
inside of wings, reddish tawny ; legs, short, flesh color; weight,
from five to six ounces. Total length, 10} inches; bill, about
2% inches, brownish flesh color, darkening to black at tip,
upper mandible broadening at tip and slightly longer than
the lower.

Adult female —In general appearance like the male, but consider-
ably larger and having all conspicuous markings somewhat
paler; average length, about 12 inches; bill, about 3 inches;
weight, from seven to eight ounces. Downy young, creamy
buff, striped and mottled above with deep brown. Range,
eastern United States; north, to Canadian provinces; west,
to Dakota, Kansas, etc.

This peculiar and rightly highly prized bird
is, perhaps, the least understood of all American
feathered game. While most sportsmen would
esteem a really good day’s cock-shooting an ex-

303

304 The American Woodcock

perience to be talked of for years afterward, and
a half-dozen brace of birds a present fit for the
highest in the land, yet comparatively few of
them know much about the cock, except during
the open season.

I gravely suspect that there has been more
nonsense written about the life, food, and habits
of this bird than about any other American
game, not even excepting the Carolina rail,
or sora, Porzana carolina. Had I chanced
to have kept a record of all questions concern-
ing feathered game, probably one-half of them
would have been about the woodcock, for to
most men he is indeed a bird of mystery.
Those who have followed him only to his sum-
mer haunts might even question his right to a
place among upland game. To them he is
a bird of wet woodlands, of the rich mud of
creek beds and borders, of the swale and the
morass. Those who have sweated through
blazing summer days, have floundered amid
the black, boggy tenacity of the lowlands, have
fought brush and mosquitoes and _ breathed
miasmatic vapors throughout the long agony
of a July or August campaign, know little of
the real pleasure of cock-shooting.

During the heated term, the bird of mystery
certainly haunts just such places, and_ those
who must hunt will find him therein. They

The American Woodcock 305

also will, if they be stanch workers, get home
at night sweat to the crown and mud to the
fork, and, possibly, bearing with them a brace
or so of cock, a fair sample of headache, and a
temper of from one-quarter to three-eighths of an
inch long.

Summer cock-shooting is a very weak imita-
tion of genuine sport. The birds then are in
poor condition — moulting flutterers, merely able
to weave a batlike flight through a tangle of
sun-parched foliage. Very often, too, the man
who is early afield, to avoid the full heat of
the day, kills a few brace before mid-morning
only to have them spoil on his hands before
he can get them home. But in the autumn
itis) very aiterent. hen the game forsakes
his beloved mud and takes to the uplands, to
the big fields of standing corn and the dry
thickets, and there he may be found in all his
glory, fat, strong, beautiful—in fine, what he
should be when a sportsman draws trigger on
him.

The bird of mystery, the big-eyed king of the
copse, must be followed from South to North and
back again before his seemingly baffling move-
ments are revealed in their real simplicity. In
the first place, he comes North very early, fre-
quently before the snow has entirely gone. I
have found birds (in Ontario) in southerly ex-

306 The American Woodcock

posed thickets while the remains of snowdrifts
yet occupied many of the northerly slopes. An
old field-book shows that the first cock of one
year was seen on the 6th of March, and an
entry two years later mentions a bird on the
8th of that month. These early birds come
North either during, or immediately after, a
spell of mild weather, and, not infrequently, too
early arrivals have to endure a final cold snap.
I have flushed solitary birds which appeared
extremely dull and weak, presumably owing to
lack of food. These birds certainly came North
several days before the frost was out of the
ground, hence before they could get at their
favorite food, z.e. worms. At such times the
woodcock busies himself in turning over the
damp, dead leaves beneath which he finds oc-
casional grubs, larve, and worms — at least
sufficient to maintain life until a happier day
arrives.

When once the frost is out, the worms work
up to and near the surface, and the cock is en-
abled to feast at his leisure. An exploded theory,
once believed by old-time sportsmen, was that
the cock lived by what they termed “suction ” —
that he thrust his long bill into the moist earth
and sucked up some form of liquid nourishment.
This belief was strengthened by the custom of
cooking the bird with the intestines, or “trail,”

The American Woodcock 307

as they were termed, still within the body. This
“trail” was esteemed a great delicacy. It looks
like a snarl of whitish twine, and when the epi-
cure brings it to light, it usually is accompanied
by a stomach-like pouch, which almost invariably
contains more or less fine sand, or gritty earth.
Finding this and nothing else, and having seen
the marks, “borings,’ left by the bird’s bill
in the mud, and the dried mud upon the bill
itself, the wise men of old promptly decided that
the bird fed upon mud, and mud of peculiar
properties, inasmuch as it imparted to the flesh
a most acceptable delicacy and richness. The
earthy matter, of course, had been inside the
worms, which had disappeared, owing to rapid
digestion.

The fact of the matter is that the cock not only
eats worms, but stows away an astonishing quan-
tity of them. I have not only seen a big worm
escaping from the throat of a bird just killed, but
I have “dug bait” for a tame woodcock, who was
as exorbitant in his demands as any old man
going fishing. When feeding the bird referred
to, I placed a good handful of worms on some
black loam which covered the bottom of an earth-
enware dish. An inch or so of loam was sprin-
kled over the worms, a little water splashed over
the whole, and then Master P. mzzor was allowed
to manage for himself. This he cleverly did, by

308 The American Woodcock

thrusting his bill deep into the mess, feeling for
the prey with the wonderfully sensitive and flexi-
ble tip of the upper mandible, and grasping it
without the slightest trouble. When his bill was
buried to almost its entire length, he frequently
seemed to be sucking, as sometimes a minute
bubble would appear at the angle of his mouth.
So far as could be observed, he sucked down
some worms and drew others entirely from the
mud and then swallowed them. Occasionally, he
would give his bill a quick flirt to one side and
reject one of those yellow-bellied, red-ringed
worms, so abundant about old manure-piles. I
never intentionally offered him one of those
worms, but boys frequently brought both sorts
in the one can. As I never saw him eat one of
them, and never saw him reject a true garden
worm, I concluded that he did not fancy the
manure brand of fare. Yet I have often, at
night, flushed a cock from a damp spot near the
stable, where the ringed, evil-smelling worms
were amazingly plentiful. Possibly they are oc-
casionally eaten, but I suspect that a few garden
worms in the same spot were the real attraction.
An intelligent examination of a woodcock will
prove him to be a most interesting example of
nature’s wisdom in planning to meet certain con-
ditions. His chief food is angleworms, for which
he must do much probing and feeling in the soft

The American Woodcock 309

ground they prefer. Hence his bill is shaped so
it will easily enter mud; it is long, that it may go
far enough; and it is equipped with a system of
nerves which make it (like the trunk of an ele-
phant) so sensitive that it can at once distinguish
between a real worm and a wormlike root, and
even between worms of different sorts. When
the bird is boring forehead-deep in the mud, he,
necessarily, is crouched. An ordinary bird, in this
position, either would have its eyes in direct con-
tact with the mud, or so near it that they would
be unable to see anything near by, especially any
prowling foe planning a rear attack. To avoid
this dangerous handicap, the cock’s eyes are
placed near the upper rear corners of his squar-
ish skull, an arrangement which not only keeps
the eyes above the mud, but enables the bird to
see, without raising its head, whatever may be
transpiring above and behind. Furthermore, the
big, beautiful eyes are owl-like in their power to
utilize the faintest of lights, and thus enable the
cock to travel and feed at will in the damp, moon-
less nights when the wormy prey is upon or near
the surface of the ground.

If the feeding of the woodcock could be care-
fully studied, we might learn some very interest-
ing things. This much I know. In addition to
the characteristic turning over of moist leaves
during March and early April, and the boring in

310 The American Woodcock

muddy spots, the cock also is a surface feeder,
both on damp and almost dry ground. Being
chiefly nocturnal in his habits, and given to
dozing the long days through, snug-hid in the
velvet shade of cool lush growths, he often flies
far through the dusk from the day cover to the
feeding ground.

More frequently than most people imagine, his
explorations extend to the hearts of large towns
and cities, where trim gardens and broad lawns
form attractive hunting grounds. It is no un-
common thing for some early-rising citizen to
find a dead or wing-broken cock upon the lawn
or street walk. Birds so found have fouled a
wire while speeding to or from some garden rich
in worms. The reason for the cock’s visits to
town is the same which caused some historic old
cocks to put on their thinking-caps, namely, the
diet of worms. Rich, well-tended gardens furnish
what Kipling calls “ good hunting,” and this the
outlying cock in some mysterious manner knows.
He also knows that it is one of the customs of
the country to have heavy dews fall some nights,
while it also is a custom of the citizens of the
country to sprinkle their lawns during that easy
period after dinner when the sun has ceased from
scorching, and the pleasure, or business weary
may best enjoy the strenuous life of him who
holds the markets of the metropolis in one hand

The American Woodcock rT

and in the other sufficient American Rubber to
form a serpentine and slightly leaky garden hose.

I do not know how many boys may understand
the poetry of digging bait. This is it. When
you want to go fishing next morning, or when
the pater wants to go, and tells you to procure
bait or expect trouble— don’t dig/ Digging is
hard and frequently uncertain work. Instead,
volunteer to sprinkle the lawn, and give it a
thorough soaking — sufficient water means suc-
cess. About midnight, take a strong light and
go over the wetted surface, and you will find
worms a-plenty crawling through the grass, and
they will be the fattest and finest kind of worms
too — in fact, such worms as the woodcock knows
he will find when he makes a flying trip to the
freshly watered lawn.

Another interesting point is this. An old
(colored) naturalist once told me that the cock
danced on the ground and often tapped with the
tip of his bill to make the worms come to the
surface. This I did not then believe, but a riper
experience has taught me that there frequently
is a trace of truth in many apparently ridiculous
statements.

While many people know that a heavy blow
upon the ground —like the stroke of a spade
— will cause near-by worms to shrink deeper into
their tunnels, perhaps not so many are aware

312 The American Woodcock

that a light tapping may bring the same worms
to the surface. A veteran poacher once told me
that when he wanted easy worms during a dry
spell, he first soaked a likely spot with a few
bucketfuls of water, then tapped the wet spot all
over with alight switch. The only reason he had
for the tapping was that his father always did it.

This set me to thinking, and the natural solu-
tion of the apparent mystery was that the poured
water, percolating downward through the holes,
notified the worms that it was raining up above —
hence a good time for them to rise to the surface.
The tapping of the switch was an imitation of
the patter of falling drops and a confirmatory
message to the worms. Following this theory,
we boys of the old brigade never merely upset
our water pails, but held them high and caused
the water to spatter like rain; and after that we
lightly and rapidly tapped the ground all over
with a switch. And we got worms! It may be
that the woodcock’s instinct tells him to both
dance and tap the ground to induce the worms
to come within reach. Other creatures do stranger
things than this.

To return to the newly arrived bird in early
spring. After a reliable food supply has become
assured, the next important business is to secure
a mate. Those who would study the wooing of
this bird must spend the April twilight and

The American Woodcock 313

evening in his haunts. Through the soft, damp
air comes a sudden squeaking cry, not unlike the
reedy sound emitted by some of the animal toys
of the children. It is followed by the well-known
and musical twittering, which must not be con-
founded with that other whistling of the air pass-
ing through the feathers of the wing. The
squeaking is uttered both while the bird is upon
the ground and when flying. It is not unlike the
cry of the night-hawk, for which bird the cock
might, in the dusk, easily be mistaken, were it
not for the fact that the hawk does not begin his
airy play until some time after the woodcock has
mated.

My favorite ground for observation was a
huge level pasture, which was bounded on two
sides by woodland and thickets. Above this
open the woodcock played evening after evening,
and it was no unusual thing to see a male waver-
ing past within a few yards. First would sound
the squeak from the shadow of the timber, then
the whistle of the wings as the bird left the
ground, and then I would see the dark form of
the bird weaving to and fro, often at great speed.
After some preliminary darting about, during
which he occasionally uttered the rasping squeak,
he would begin to tower—up and up, till he
seemed far above the tallest trees, and could
be located only by his twittering whistle; then he

314 The American Woodcock

would dive like a night-hawk, slanting sometimes
for several hundred feet. Birds so occupied
appeared to dive at random in any direction, but
most of them eventually worked back toward their
original rising-points— presumably because the
object of their devotion was somewhere in that
vicinity. The love-making of the Wilson’s snipe
is somewhat similar.

The nest, frequently found in a low-lying maple
thicket, consists of a few dry leaves drawn together
on the ground. The four pear-shaped eggs are
buff, spotted with reddish brown, and considerably
larger than a novice would expect from the size
of the bird. The young are tottery little things,
able to run feebly as soon as dry. They some-
times make what seems like a half-hearted attempt
at hiding, but at both running and hiding they
lack the nervous speed and cleverness of such
spry small rascals as young quail or grouse.

The mother, surprised with the young, makes
no great demonstration, usually fluttering up
amid the saplings and down again at no great
distance. On such occasions I have heard her
utter a low quacking sound, once or twice re-
peated. If the discoverer of the young will retreat
and conceal himself at some point from which he
can observe the subsequent proceedings, he may
see the female return and remove the young one
at atime. This I have not seen done in the case

The American Woodcock 315

of four youngsters, but I have good reason to
believe that I have seen ove carried off. The
nest in question was on a bit of level ground amid
tall trees. The sole suggestion of cover was a
lot of flattened leaves which lay as the snow had
left them. Perhaps ten yards away was an old
rail fence about waist-high, and on the farther
side of it was a clump of tall saplings. A man
coming out of the wood told me he had just
flushed a woodcock and had seen her brood, re-
cently hatched, and pointed out where they were.
I went in to investigate, and located one young
bird crouched on the leaves. It ran a few steps
and again crouched, evidently not yet strong
enough for any sustained effort. I went off, and
hid behind a stump, to await developments.
From this shelter the young bird was visible and
it made no attempt to move. Presently the old
one came fluttering back, alighted near the young-
ster, and walked to it. In a few moments she
rose and flew low and heavily, merely clearing
the fence, and dropping perhaps ten yards within
the thicket. Her legs appeared to be half-bent,
and so far as I could determine the youngster was
held between them. Something about her ap-
pearance reminded me of a thing often seen—a
shrike carrying off a small bird. I carefully
marked her down, then glanced toward where
the youngster had been. It was no longer there;

316 The American Woodcock

and a few moments later it, or its mate, was found
exactly where the mother had gone down. She
flushed and made off in the usual summer flight.
These details are dwelt upon because many writers
have disputed the carrying of the young. My
impression is that the bird had removed the other
children before I got to the place. The one
found, however, was alone, and the others were
not located. They certainly were not beside the
one, but the search for them was brief, owing to
the fact that there was a nasty possibility of step-
ping on them.

The feeding of the downy young I have not
seen, so the next step must be to the soft ground
of almost dried creek beds and swales where the
young do their own boring. Here begins the
early cock-shooting, and the man who fancies
such easy marks is welcome to them. The con-
ditions are all against enjoyable sport, or shoot-
ing which will be any great test of marksmanship.
Asa rule there is a lot ‘of thick ‘cover “about
which shuts off what light breeze there may be,
while in many creek beds a harsh, keen-edged
grass grows abundantly. In this a good dog is
bound to suffer—in fact, in my opinion, the
game is not worth the candle. If a man must
do it, he had best depend upon a tough, bustling
spaniel, for beating muddy ground upon a sultry
day is a mighty poor occupation for a setter or

Whe American Woodcock 317

pointer worthy of the name. In many parts of
the country, notably upon the sides of the Penn-
sylvania mountains, there are peculiar wet spots,
frequently of considerable extent. These spots
occur precisely where one naturally would expect
dryness, and there usually is more or less dense,
leafy cover about them. On such ground, one
is apt to find a fair number of birds during July
and August.

About September most of the small creeks,
which afforded excellent boring earlier in the
season, have become too dry. Then the cock -
are very apt to betake themselves to large fields
of green corn. In this tall cover there frequently
is very pretty snap-shooting, and a man can work
his pointer, or setter, to advantage. <A bell on
the dog, tied to his neck with a string which will
not sustain the dog’s weight, is no bad wrinkle.

The wise man, beating a field of tall corn, will
not falsely judge its promise because it happens
to appear pretty dry. There may be — nay, there
frequently is—a low-lying and much damper
acre or so near the centre and hidden by the
corn. Such a bit often affords choice feeding.
And even a dusty, dry field may happen to be the
day resort of half the birds in the neighborhood.
The cock not infrequently pass the day in such
fields, and fly far and wide to feed at dusk. There-
fore, it is well to work through the field and keep

318 The American Woodcock

a keen eye upon the ground for the two infallible
signs, the borings and the droppings, the latter
showing distinctly like drops of whitewash on the
ground.

In a corn-field the borings may be scattered or
in clusters, the latter arrangement suggesting that
the probing bill had found “pay dirt” — other-
wise, wormy ground. The appearance of the
borings is unlike worm-holes or any other holes,
of which many may show. The woodcock’s sign
looks as though somebody had thrust a slim
’ pencil again and again — perhaps a dozen times
in a spot a foot square —into the ground. The
arrangement of the holes may be roughly circular,
in lines, or scattered, but their presence attests
that one or more birds spent some time at the
spot. Quite often there will be no borings what-
ever in the open spaces between the rows of corn,
while close about the roots the soil may be
riddled. And it is well to remember that one or
two birds sometimes make an astonishing num-
‘ber of holes, and also that birds may feed in a
certain field, yet not remain there during the day.
I have seen ground riddled like the bottom of a
colander, yet never a bird in that field. Then is
the time to climb the fence and take a look at the
surroundings, for an adjacent bit of heavy woods
or a thicket may be well worth a visit. A useful
rule, too, when a heavy rain follows a dry spell, is

The American Woodcock 319

to visit the fields the next morning, bright and
early. The birds know that the rain will bring
up the erstwhile deeply buried worms, and that
the corn lands will offer the fattest of foraging.
It is possible to make good woodcock ground
in an afternoon, or even within a couple of hours,
if you are sufficiently energetic. A teaspoonful
of whiting and some water in a handy bottle —
well shaken before takin’ — makes most excellent
droppings, while a pencil, or stiff twig, cannot be
beaten in the line of borings. Once there was a
man, a highly conceited, extremely self-assertive
man, the kind of man to whom nobody on earth
can teach anything, and he knew all about wood-
cock. One day he happened to flush a cock in
a field quite near town, and he swore he flushed
six. Early next morning another man, and an
evil man withal, slipped to that field and killed
the lone bird before half-past seven. There were
about enough borings to make one colander,
which showed that a solitary bird had happened
into the field, and not six, as the fork-tongued man
had sworn. Whereupon the misled man waxed
wroth, and he took a small cold bottle and the
hottest kind of a hot bird, ze. a foot of fence-
wire, and he made that corn-field look as if a
hundred thousand ten-ounce woodcock were given
to boring and chalking the same. And after
office-hours came the fork-tongued man cautiously

320 The American Woodcock

hasting, gun in hand and dog at heel, and cock-
sure, and he went to work, and he remained at
work. Neither the oze he saw, nor the szxr he
said he saw, were in the cover —and so he beat
the dog for a no-good brute, and went home ex-
ceeding wrathful. And the next day and also
the next — but why linger?

The operation of corn-cutting, of course, ruins
the cover and drives the birds to adjacent woods
and thickets, where they may be found until some
cold snap sends them hastening southward. The
brief season immediately after the leaves have
fallen brings the cream of the cock-shooting.
Then a good dog can range at will, and any one
of the swift, plump birds he may point is well
worth a dozen of the moulting weaklings of the
earlier season. While I consider a mixed bag
the best possible of the autumn, there are few
field experiences to compare with one of those
too rarely granted Indian summer days, when
one finds long strips of leafless thicket containing
anywhere from fifteen to thirty prime woodcock.
Many of such thickets of western Ontario have
furnished the crowning triumph of a glorious day,
and if the mighty voice of Niagara could be soft-
ened to a confidential whisper, it mzgh¢ tattle
of rare doings in its trembling gorge, when the
gay maples flaunted their splendors which the
sly mist strove to veil.

The American Woodcock 321

The gun for woodcock is the twelve-gauge —
the quail-gun, and the same load answers for both
birds; indeed, I once made twin loads axswer for
both birds. The quail had gone to cover, from
which a cock and a quail rose almost side by side,
affording a seldom-granted double.

Good cock-shooting is now almost a thing of
the past in many places where heavy bags used
to be the rule. The heaviest bag ever I saw was
sixty-odd to two guns in one day, scored by two
market hunters near Lake St. Clair. Walpole
Island, in the same water system, used to be a
famous cock ground. It is quite possible that a
belt of country a few miles wide and extending
entirely around Lake St. Clair, would contain as
many cock as any other area of equal mileage in
the North. Extensive drainage, backed by too
close shooting, has played havoc with leagues
upon leagues of what formerly were the strong-
holds of this choice game.

BARTRAM’S SANDPIPER— UPLAND
PEOVER

(Bartramia longicauda)

Adult — Crown, nape, back, and scapulars, black, feathers edged
with buff; hind neck, sides of head, and neck, buff, streaked
with dark brown; lesser wing-coverts, light brown, barred with
black and buff; greater coverts, dark brown, barred on inner
web, edged and tipped with white; primaries, dark brown,
edged with creamy white; lower back, rump, and central tail-
coverts, black; rest of coverts, black at base, remainder, buff,
barred with black and white; central feathers of tail, gray,
barred with black; other tail-feathers, buff, with black spots
and bar near tip, which is white; entire under parts, buff,
irregularly barred with dark brown on breast and flanks ; lower
breast, showing a few V-shaped dark markings; bill, sooty
brown, lighter at base; legs and feet, olive, tinged with yellow.
Length, 12 inches; wing, 61; tarsus, 2. Range, eastern North
America to Nova Scotia; westward to the Rockies, and north
to the Yukon valley. Its southward migration extends to the
Argentine Republic and Peru. Occasionally taken in Europe
and Australia.

In all probability more than a few American
sportsmen will fail at first glance to recognize
the proper name of this choice game-bird. To
them it is the “upland plover” and nothing more.

322

Bartran’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover 323

A non-sporting critic, too, might question the
propriety of including a bird of the name in
this volume, but those familiar with the species
will readily understand why it is given place
among its present company. We are accus-
tomed to connect barelegged birds of this type
with wading, or at least with trotting the beaches
and the margins of streams and ponds; but the
present species, except during the nesting sea-
son, evinces no great love for water, or even
marshy localities. Naturally a haunter of plains
and uplands, it is seldom seen within a gun-
shot of water; in fact, from its habits, one
naturally would classify it with the plovers,
rather than the sandpipers. Among its common
names are “gray” and “grass plover”; in the
West, “prairie-pigeon,” and, among the Creoles
of Louisiana, “papabotte.” On the principle
that “A rose by any other name will smell as
sweet,” this sandpiper, by any other name (and it
is a much-named bird), is just as good to eat.
Any one who has tasted a bird in prime condition
knows why this species is eagerly pursued, for in
truth it is a dainty not to be overlooked. I have
even heard men of considerable epicurean taste
declare that they prefer it to the woodcock, which,
while perhaps going a bit too far, would suggest
that the dainty of the uplands is by no means to
be despised.

324 Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover

To see this bird at its best one must go to
the big grass states, from Illinois and Kansas,
southward to Texas. In portions of the last-
named state it frequently is seen in great
flocks, the like of which are unknown in the
East. Some twenty years ago, in a corner of
Illinois, I saw more “gray plover,” as they were
then called, than could be counted by any one
short of a lightning calculator. Such a spectacle
was perhaps never seen much farther East, even
in localities where the plover is deemed a very
common bird.

In regions much shot over, which means the
bird’s eastern range, it is by no means an easy
quarry; in fact, it seldom allows itself to be ap-
proached within the reliable range of even a fine
gun. One may see hundreds running about, or
standing motionless and sharply defined above
the grass, and yet fail to make anything like a
heavy bag. Old settlers have told me that in
the early days of settlement on the plains, the
birds were almost fearless, and their incessant
scolding at an intruder was at times positively
annoying; but when my day in the West began
there was very little of that sort of thing. The
sandpiper seemed to have acquired a very useful
idea concerning the range of modern firearms,
and only in the spring and while the young were
unable to fly did the older birds betray any reck-

Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover 325

lessness in the matter of allowing a man to ap-
proach them.

It is a very active bird, running smoothly and
rapidly when in the humor and flying with
dovelike speed. Like its distant relative, the
small, spotted sandpiper, it will not hesitate
to alight upon a fence, pile of boards, or out-
building. The nest is merely a slight depres-
sion in the ground, roughly lined with a few
blades of grass. The four eggs are very large,
the ground color grayish buff, with spots of
dark brown and grayish brown. They are
hatched in June, and shortly after the young
are seen running totteringly over the grass.
They make a feeble attempt at hiding, but are
practically helpless and altogether comical-look-
ing spindle-shanked affairs. The mother is a
most devoted parent, keeping up a shrill appeal,
simulating lameness, and even plunging in a
threatening manner about one’s head. When the
birds have mated in numbers, the outcry of one
starts all the rest to scolding, and the din they
raise can be heard afar. The food of this species
is chiefly insectivorous. Vast numbers of grass-
hoppers and crickets are consumed, and also berries
of various sorts. Toward the end of the summer it
leaves the grass and takes to the cultivated lands
for a period. Before the end of September most
of the small flocks unite and move southward.

326 Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover

Some of the finest sport it has been my lot
to enjoy with this bird was upon those rare
days when the plover of a large area appeared
to be posted singly and many yards apart. I
have seen a bit of prairie about a mile square,
dotted all over with motionless and observant
birds, and these so evenly distributed that they
might have posed for so many decoys. Under
such conditions, it occasionally happens that a
man on foot can have some very pretty shoot-
ing. ' But there“is no such thing) as\a wer,
close approach. The average “rise” probably
would be about thirty-five yards, at which dis-
tance only a quick man, aided by a hard-shoot-
ing gun, can hope to score at all uniformly.
Upon such a day, too, the great majority of
chances will be quartering shots, for the birds
seem to prefer to keep their enemy plainly in
view. This, of course, means that the gun must
be well ahead of the mark and kept at an even
swing. In fact, the sport bears no slight resem-
blance to live bird shooting at the traps. The
plover gets away smartly and is soon at top speed,
and the top speed of this bird is no poor imitation
of fast flying. But, unfortunately, such days are
all too few, the general rule being that these scat-
tered birds flush almost beyond range and fly to
a considerable distance before pitching. This
necessitates a deal of walking, and encourages

Bartram’ s Sandpiper — Upland Plover 327

that undesirable thing, ze. shooting when the
game is beyond the reliable killing zone of the
gun, and the consequent wounding of birds which
never will be gathered.

A popular method in many parts of the West
is to drive to the birds in a buckboard, or
other convenient mg. For a man who can
shoot well in the sitting posture this is an ex-
cellent plan, as the birds almost invariably will
permit a wheeled conveyance to approach within
comparatively easy range. A clever driver is
a valuable assistant. Such a man never heads
his team directly at the birds, but drives as
though he merely intended to pass them by.
A good judge of distance in the open can
in this way edge within comfortable range of
plover which, if the driver steered straight for
them, or the gun attempted to dismount and
stalk, would at once make off. I have va-
ried the shooting from the seat by walking
at the horse’s shoulders. The plover do not
appear to notice the extra pair of legs. This
sometimes gives the prettiest kind of shooting.
All one has to do is to judge when sufficiently
close, then stand still with the gun at the ready,
while the team moves steadily ahead. Usually
the plover will take wing the moment the foot-
man is uncovered; but should they not, the
man can gain a few yards by briskly walking

328 Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover

toward them. I have occasionally stalked them
by keeping close to the shoulder of a steady
old horse that was indifferent in the matters
of smoke and loud reports. A reliable nag,
equipped with some inconspicuous form of halter
and guide-line, is a very useful assistant when
birds are too wary for ordinary scouting tac-
tics. Occasionally, sudden heavy rains flood
big meadows, and thus furnish attractive tem-
porary quarters for ducks and waders of vari-
ous sorts. In such emergencies the horse may
prove an almost invaluable assistant. A cow
of sedate temperament is a possibility in the
same line, but she seldom is so easy to con-
trol as the superior animal. In the olden days,
an artificial stalking horse frequently was called
into service; and it is quite possible that a
colt out of that ancient steed still might prove
useful upon ground which has been much used
as pasture.

The fluting of this sandpiper is sweet, far-
reaching, and somewhat deceptive. Quite often
it is distinctly heard falling from an apparently
wingless sky. A good pair of eyes, fixed upon
the quarter indicated by the cry, may pres-
ently detect a motelike form lazily floating in
the distant blue. This drifting flight is charac-
teristic of the present species, and it usually
ends in a diving slant earthward, which is per-

THE GAME-BIRD OF THE UNIVERSE
(Upland Plover)

— —<—s.

Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover 329

formed without any perceptible motion of the
wings. A few feet from the ground the long,
beautifully easy descent is gently checked, and
the bird alights as quietly as though it had
stooped only a yard or so instead of hundreds
or thousands of feet. For a few seconds after
alighting the bird is apt to keep its wings con-
siderably elevated above its back, and the brief
pose in this position is particularly attractive.
Then the airy fans are sedately furled. This
pretty trick of keeping the wings spread as if
for a momentary study of how they should be
correctly folded is not peculiar to this species.
Others of its near and remote kin go through
the same dainty evolution, although, perhaps,
without the air of studied care which is charac-
teristic of Bartram’s sandpiper.

While the excellence of this bird for the table
is universally acknowledged, it would appear
that a sojourn in Louisiana is necessary to
bring it to the greatest perfection. A certain
Creole, himself an amateur chef of no uncer-
tain standing, has often assured me that the
“papabotte,” &@ la Louzsiana, is the daintiest
morsel that ever tickled an appreciative palate,
not even excepting a prime woodcock. His
argument is that the peculiar excellence of the
papabotte, like that of the canvasback, is merely
a matter of diet, and that the papabotte, while

330 © Bartram’s Sandpiper — Upland Plover

in Louisiana, feeds upon a certain insect which
imparts to the flesh a flavor calculated to make
a man forget his troubles, his appointments,
and everything that is his.

THE GOLDEN PLOVER
(Charadrius dominicus)

Adult male (summer plumage) — Entire upper parts, black, spotted
all over with golden yellow and white; wing-coverts, sooty
brown, with a few spots of yellow and white; primaries,
brown, shafts, whitish; upper tail-coverts, black, with irregu-
lar golden bars; tail, brownish gray, with white bars, and
flecked with yellowish; across the forehead, above the eyes,
and down the sides of the neck, extends a broadening white
line until it joins the white sides of the breast, which in turn
merge into white flanks; sides of head, neck, and all lower
parts to under tail-coverts, jet black, with golden spots along
the edge of the black of breast and flanks; under tail-coverts,
white; bill, black, one inch long; legs and feet, lead color.
Length, about 10 inches; wing, 7; tarsus, 14. In the winter
plumage, the under parts are white, or whitish, with a few
brownish and black mottlings. The adult female is like the
male, but slightly paler and less decided in all conspicuous
markings. Range, the Americas, from the Arctic regions to
Chili and Patagonia.

The golden plover, “green plover,’ “golden-
back,” “frost-bird,” etc, has the same claim
to recognition among upland game as has been
advanced in behalf of the preceding species. As
it breeds in the far north and spends the win-
ter so far south, it is a migrant so far as this

The Golden Plover 331

country is concerned, passing northward in the
spring and returning southward bound in the
fall. While frequently seen in numbers along
the coast and about the shores of the Great
Lakes, especially during the spring flight, it
also is a common bird of the great plains, pas-
tures, and fields of the dry interior in early
autumn. It reaches Alaska and other north-
ern points during May. The nest is a roughly
lined hollow in any convenient growth of moss
or grass, and the usual number of eggs is four.
They are yellowish buff, spotted with reddish
brown. During average seasons, the golden
plover is apt to appear in the latitude of IIh-
nois, western Ontario, etc., between the rst and
the 15th of October, but the time of arrival
is subject to considerable variation, as are the
yearly visits of the birds. I have seen thousands
of them one season, and perhaps a few scattering
specimens, or none at all, for several successive
years. When found thinly dispersed over big
pastures and fields, the golden plover frequently
affords capital sport, but when large flocks are
the rule, the quality of the sport is questionable
if that of the slain is not. Golden plover shoot-
‘ing at such times is not unlike what wild pigeon
shooting used to be, ze. something closely akin
to mere butchery. A few years ago a huge flock
swept down upon me, and their unexpected ap-

332 The Golden Plover

pearance so astonished me that fourteen fine
fellows fell to two barrels. Needless to say, this
was in no sense sport, and my sole excuse for the
outrage is that I thought the flock was travelling,
and unlikely to offer another chance.

A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

To slip away from grinding Gotham, from the
roar and the clatter and the ceaseless jar of it all,
is no bad medicine for a weary writer, and I was
taking my medicine with a childish swallowbility
most beautiful to behold.

The quiet Ontario parsonage somewhat resem-
bled a fat old dormouse working overtime; but
nevertheless it was no bad place to be. The
night silence was almost appalling and I lay
like a scared child in the dark, afraid to cry
out and too utterly forsaken to think of going
to sleep.

A big apple — soulless and criminally irrespon-
sible — fell with a crash upon a distant, hollow
roof, then slowly trundled and fell again to earthy
silence. It was absolutely terrifying. Then
there came a mysterious rustling, a feeling of a
myriad searching fingers, a vague sniffing here:
and there and everywhere — exactly what might
have been caused by a monstrous blue tiger with
a pale pink tail—and I sat up!

A Golden Opportunity 333

What had happened? The L-road was silent
as an ancient tomb! The surface system was
paralyzed! There was never a gong, nor a metal
shoe striking a cobble; it was awful! Then
came a gasping whisper, then another and another.
That settled it! There was some tremendous
fire down town and everything was tied up, and
somebody in my room, or the next, had been left
to diealone. I could hear his, or her, soul sliding
out between the set teeth, and not caring to have
even some stranger’s soul get lost, I proceeded
to get up.

At this instant came another sound. Evi-
dently the suffering soul had got away and was
now wishing itself safe back again, for there came
a slow, solemn, lost-forever sort of wailing —an
fEolian brand of dead march, in which every
string was busy and a fair breeze pledged by the
weather bureau. In it was every known note of
grief unmeasured, from the hopeless misery of a
child irrigating a broken doll, to the staider and
better sustained effort of Rachel mourning for
her children, with a dash of banshee at the bot-
tom of the cup of sorrow. Sweetly solemn,
wildly sad as it was, it was very welcome, for
those same old pines had whispered my cradle-
song in the tow-headed past.

Some few moments later, as it seemed to me,
the venerable family horse took a stroll through

334 A Golden Opportunity

the hall and began kicking at my door. If it
was the horse, it could give Balaam’s ass weight
for age and flag him, for presently it said, —

“T say—you in there —I say-ay!”

Only one man on earth was allowed to use
that peculiar drawling “Isa-ay” and live, and
the sound of it woke me like a splash of cold
water.

“That you, Joe? Come in!” I shouted, won-
dering meanwhile how the deuce he had got there.

The door opened, and a brown, foxy face,
fringed with grizzly whiskers, was inserted with
about the same amount of confidence that a fox
would betray while examining a poorly set trap.

“T say—yowve pretty dom comfortable, ain’t
you now—I sa-ay—ain’t you now? I say, I
seed the guv’nor outside, an’ he told me to come
up—HI sa-ay, he told me to come up. Get up
out of that, you lazy devil! —I say, get up out of
that |

A curious, but a rare good, fellow was Joe, and
a mighty hunter withal. Some vague number of
years before he had been smitten, in England,
with a peculiar, sometimes contagious, disease
which he pronounced “powching,” but which
others pronounced “ poaching.”

Born with his full share of sporting blood,
which later developed a passion for shooting, the
sturdy young Briton also had a useful stock of

SS eS rmr cc Ee eEOEOeeeeereere

A Golden Opportunity 335

sound common sense. While he rebelled against
the severity of British game laws, he thoroughly
understood their meaning; and he knew that
sooner or later a man of his calibre was bound to
run foul of them and get into serious trouble.
So he wisely concluded to take his doctor’s advice
and try the effect of a trip over sea. Rugged as
a gnarled oak, and plucky as one of his favorite
black-red stags, he had no fears, and no sooner
had he got settled in Ontario than he realized
what grand sporting possibilities were open to
him. After locating upon a tidy little farm a few
miles from Lake St. Clair, he wisely devoted him-
self to market gardening and sport. The river
and lake were full of black bass and other fish;
deer and turkey were within easy reach; quail
swarmed almost everywhere; while waterfowl,
shore-birds, cock, snipe, and hares added to sport
the like of which he had dreamed of, but never
enjoyed.

To such a man, the new land was like a home-
stead in Paradise, and his early training served
him nobly under the altered conditions. A
fairly good shot and an indefatigable worker, he
soon attained renown as one of the best men
afield in three sporting counties. By training a
close observer, his shrewd little gray eyes missed
nothing, and I question if there was a man in his
part of the country who knew more about the

336 A Golden Opportunity

ways of wild things. Always frankly jolly toward
those whom he fancied, he was the best of guides
and comrades to whomever was so fortunate as to
find favor in his eyes. He was a bit careful
about the men he asked to share his sport, and
he hated a bluffer or a shirker as he hated a blank
day. Woe betide the officious know-it-all, or the
man who boasted about his prowess and failed to
make good. Joe would take him out once and take
his measure with an accuracy that would make
the Bertillon system appear like guesswork.
Joe’s “I say he’s no good, I sa-ay he’s a quitter”
forever settled it.

His treatment of such a man was characteristic.
Never a word of fault-finding, or anything like
discourtesy, although there surely would be some
quaint if not blistering badinage. Joe’s rule was
to thoroughly size his man the first day, and then
treat him according to his deserts. The man
found wanting in the necessary gameness for the
stiffest of tramps was liable to long remember
his second day. So surely as Joe took him out,
so surely would he be led to the slaughter.

Quaking bogs, creeks, the deepest of mud, and
the densest of cover were his certain portion.
Through it all the iron veteran would unflinch-
ingly pilot his victim, and the bag would be the
worst possible. Nightfall would find them three
or four miles deep in the roughest going, and the

A Golden Opportunity 337

final homeward tramp was something the victim
never forgot. Then Joe would bundle him into
his trap, and start him homeward with a polite
invitation to have another day soon. Needless to
say that day never came, for nothing could induce
that particular subject to apply for a second treat-
ment.

Those who really knew Joe, however, appre-
ciated his sterling worth. Loyal and game to the
core, the real man was a friend worth having, for
he scorned all affectation and treachery, and the
grip of his strong hand meant precisely what a
manly handclasp should mean. I have shot with
many men of various walks in life, but I have yet
to meet his superior in those valuable qualifica-
tions — sound common sense, shrewd, dry humor,
bulldog courage, and all-round knowledge of his
craft.

The first time I shot with him, I got it, as
everybody else did. It was in spring, and he had
me out about two hours before daylight to try for
geese. By nine o'clock the flight was over, and a
bit of snipe-shooting followed. Through the
mud we went for miles, shooting, reloading,
gathering, always on our feet in heavy mud. The
lunch was a standing function, for the nearest dry
seat was afar at the edge of the dim forest line.
Not till the red sun touched the marsh did the
veteran (he was then past middle age) turn home-

338 A Golden Opportunity

ward. We were both heavily laden, and pounds
of mud clung to our waders. When finally easier
going was reached, we waded into a ditch and
got rid of the mud. For a mile the walking was
easier, but I was fast curling up when the sight
of the house spurred me to a desperate effort.

“TI say, them long shanks had enough — I
sa-ay —they had enough?” queried Joe, as we
reached his gate. His face was gray with weari-
ness, but the sharp little eyes twinkled defiantly.
Needless to say “them long shanks” had had
more than enough —in fact, we both fell sound
asleep in our chairs before supper could be pre-
pared. If Arthur of sainted memory had a harder
job in winning his spurs, I can readily understand
why he died so long ago!

It has been my fate to hunt with three extraor-
dinary men of the same name: Joe, the Indian,
or rather “breed,” of ptarmigan fame; that other
Joe, of the turkey tracking; and this one. Three
better men in their respective lines never tramped
from dawn till dusk, and if there be dim trails in
the Happy Hunting Grounds, there will be Joes
to the fore, for these were men among men.

But to return to my early visit and its object.
Of course, it was shooting. Joe had reached
town by gray dawn, had disposed of a load of
produce, and was ready to go home. He was a
bit impatient, too, which was a good sign; but he

A Golden Opportunity 339

vouchsafed no further information than a state-
ment that he knew where there were some birds.
In about an hour we were driving smartly down
river over an excellent road. We chatted of
many things, but I got no information concerning
the game. Near Joe’s house was a huge pasture,
and as we passed this he rose to his feet, and
stared over the acres of close-cropped grass.

“ T say — they’re there — I sa-ay, we'll get em!”
was his somewhat startling remark.

I didn’t see anything, and ventured, “ Get
what?”

“Giang!” said he to the team, and in a few
minutes we pulled up at the gate, where one of
Joe’s sturdy sons took charge of the nags.

“I say — hustle now —I sa-ay — hustle!” re-
marked Joe, as he darted into the house for his
outfit.

In brief time we were ready, and he hurried
along the road, finally halting at the corner of the
big pasture.

“ T say — yonder they be — I sa-ay, yonder they
be —a thousand of ’em.”

I looked at what at first glance appeared to be
a great, deserted pasture dotted with queer-look-
ing tufts of dried weeds. The ground was bone
dry, so I knew no late snipe were to be expected.
Quail would not remain in such a place during
the hours Joe had been away, and I could think

340 A Golden Opportunity

of nothing else. The veteran chuckled in his own
inimitable manner, and whispered, “I say, them
night lights in York must be bad for the eyes —
I sa-ay, you mole-eyed fool, don’t you see ‘em?”

An instant later one of the queer tufts of weed
nimbly sprinted for a few yards, then halted like
a soldier at “attention.” Then mine eyes were
opened, and I saw the glorious truth — that every
tuft was a golden plover in the grayish brown
dress, and that there were near a thousand tufts.

“Pll surround ’em—you do your best—I
sa-ay, do your best,” and away he crept along
the fence line. It was a long way to the next
corner, but presently I made him out as he stole
down the opposite side. He was down so low,
that, were it not for the speed of his movements,
I could have sworn he was actually on hands and
knees — but this style of creeping was one of
his long suits. After a bit he vanished, and I
guessed he was “worming it.” Then I noticed
a small bunch of birds trotting away from his
fence, and at once the swiftly planned attack was
intelligible. Then a double cloud of smoke belched
from a panel much farther along than I fancied
Joe could have got, and a string of trotting birds
keeled over.

There followed a beautiful sight. Half the
surface of the big field appeared to take wing,
and a moment later a mighty column of plover

A Golden Opportunity 341

was boring and veering two hundred yards to
my left. Would they go,—or turn? For an
agonizing minute things looked extremely doubt-
ful. The big flock reminded me of old “pigeon
days,” as it swept low over the farther end of the
field,—then suddenly it rose and, veering sharply,
headed directly for my stand. In an instant
doubt akin to despair was succeeded by keen
excitement. They were coming like the wind.
It seemed too good to be true, and it was impos-
sible to resist the inclination to open the gun and
make sure that shells were in place, for surely
something would have to be wrong to spoil such
a chance.

Then came the roar of countless wings, and a
river of gray speed flowed through the field of
blue. To the centre of that stream of life was
forty yards, and its height was some twenty yards
above the grass. I was almost ashamed to shoot,
for it seemed as if shells loaded with strong butter
should have done something. The flock looked
to be fully one hundred yards long, while at its
head and at another point a short distance back,
the formation presented an apparently solid mass.
Naturally, these two masses caught the eye, and
at them the “twelve” hurled its fatal message.

The result was—shameful! For an instant
two great gaps showed in the stream of gray —
then I understood why some old scientific seer,

342 A Golden Opportunity

having the fear of this day in his heart, had be-
stowed upon this bird a name from the same tap
which friend Jupiter Pluvius still occasionally
turns on. The opportunity was, indeed, a golden
one, and to be candid, it fairly rained plover.

To slip in another shell and clip a few birds
from the rearward stragglers was easy enough,
then I watched the retreating flock tilligit
showed dimly gray like the smoke of a distant
steamer.

A faint “Hi!” and the downward sweeping of
Joe’s hat warned me to flatten without bothering
about the cripples. Glancing again in the direc-
tion taken by the flock, I saw that it had turned.
I had not thought of its possible return, but
there it was, growing more distinct every mo-
ment. Two or three winged birds were moving
on the grass, and I instantly realized their value
as decoys, and also something else. A rapid
crawl of about fifty yards might put me in a
much better position, and no time was lost in
moving.

As the flock approached, it was too high for
effective work, but at precisely the right moment
a wounded bird sprang from the ground and fell
back. With a humming rush the winged army
swooped down to its wounded. The first shot
sent the head of the column upward again, then
the second barrel raked it for a third of its length.

A Golden Opportunity 343

Plover pattered all over the field, while the sur-
vivors swept over Joe. Another double hail
ripped through the crowded mass and scattered
it into detached bands, which sped wildly in all
directions. Twice, groups of fifteen or twenty
dashed past my stand and paid full toll, and I
could hear Joe hammering away. Then, for a
few moments, some bewildered single birds gave
chances to both guns, then silence fell and far
away a dark cloud paled and vanished.

It was some twenty minutes before the
“powcher” would admit that there was no
more return to be expected. Then we set to
work at the retrieving. This proved no easy
task, for a fall plover matches short brown grass
in a baffling fashion. Finally, after piling to-
gether all birds lying within a certain area, we
tramped a few yards apart, to and fro from end
to end of the field. This method was rewarded
by the discovery of half a dozen or more scat-
tered birds. The total bag numbered eighty-
odd.

The birds were in prime condition, and it was
an easy task to arrange them in small lots. The
disposal of them was still easier, for a man
troubled with too much choice game is mighty
apt to be, for the moment, the most popular chap
in town.

Upon one other occasion a great flock of plover

344 A Golden Opportunity

behaved in a similar manner, but as the condi-
tions were almost identical, the one description
will suffice. These two days were by far the best
I have enjoyed in many years of shooting. A
bag of from eight to fifteen would be nearer the
average performance.

FOREIGN GAME

While it is not my purpose to dwell at any
great length upon the various game-birds which
have been introduced by sporting clubs, associa-
tions, and enterprising private individuals, a few
remarks may not be out of order in concluding
this volume on American upland game-birds.

In the first place, I may as well say that, in my
opinion, most of the money lavished upon the
importation and breeding of foreign game might
be better spent in behalf of native birds. No
country in the world has finer native game than
this continent can boast, nor is there any foreign
game-bird able to truly fill the place of any
American species.

In waterfowl, nothing of which I have any
knowledge can surpass our swans, geese, and
ducks, while in the matter of long-legged game,
from cranes to the least of shore-birds we are
without a peer. It is true that the European
woodcock is a fine bird, twice the size of ours,
but no man, competent to pass an opinion on the
sporting and edible qualities of the two species,
would hesitate over awarding the palm to the
smaller candidate.

345

346 Foreign Game

Among gallinaceous game-birds, Europe’s best
include the capercailzie, pheasant, black-game,
red grouse, and the partridge. To offset these,
we have the turkey and the many grouse and
partridge described in this book. No sane man
would for one moment think of comparing the
turkey with the capercailzie, unless he wanted
to convince the big grouse that comparisons
truly are odious. The pheasant we already have
in abundance, while the question of our ever
being able to establish a useful stock of black-
game and partridge remains an open one. The
red grouse, grand fellow that he is, looks like an
impossibility, unless we prove able to induce the
heather of his beloved moors to thrive upon some
of our far western table-lands. That the black-
game, red grouse, and partridge are choice and
desirable birds goes without saying, but does not
imply them superior, or even equal to, the best
of our natives. So long as brave brown Bob
shall continue to whir from bristling stubble to
rustling corn, or the sheltering glory of the turn-
ing leaf, so long shall the British partridge have
an unconquerable rival. And so long as the
breeze-bent grasses hide the eggs of “chicken”
and “sharptail,” so long must the quality of black-
game, and even the red grouse, be disputed.

The possibility of firmly establishing the big
capercailzie remains for future solution — possi-

Foreign Game 347

bly the answer may be furnished in the affirma-
tive by New England, the Canadian maritime
provinces, Quebec, or some portion of the vast
mountainous regions of the Pacific side. I fail
to see why serious effort should be devoted to
the attempt. There are many better native game-
birds, if sport be the object, for the best the accli-
mated capercailzie would offer would be a mon-
grel form of still hunting with the small calibre
rifle. To stalk a calling bird and drop him from
his perch doubtless would be a mildly interesting
feat for the first few attempts, but I utterly fail to
perceive how it could permanently rival turkey-
tracking or even turkey-calling.

The one imported bird now firmly established
and entitled to a place among American upland
game is the pheasant. While we have many
breeders of pheasants, such as the golden, silver,
Amherst, and other beautiful species, the bird in
which sportsmen are most interested is the Mon-
golian, or ringneck, Phaszanus torguatus. This
is a large and exceedingly handsome bird, hardy
enough to thrive almost anywhere in the forested
regions of the United States; but judged from the
sporting point of view, it is greatly inferior to the
best of our grouse.

Some twenty odd years ago the first of the
ringnecks and other Chinese pheasants were
imported. The Hon. O. N. Denny, then the

348 Foreign Game

United States Consul-General at Shanghai, was
prominent among the sportsmen interested in
the Americanizing of the long-tailed Mongolians.
The first lot of birds, as nearly as I can remem-
ber, numbered about fifty pairs. In this lot were
half a dozen species —the ringneck, the green
Japanese, the copper, the Tragopan, the silver,
and the golden. The birds were controlled by
the old Multnomah Rod and Gun Club, and were
placed on Protection Island in Puget Sound. A
game-keeper had charge of the pheasantry, and
later, when the club ceased to exist, he paid him-
self arrears of wages by leasing the pheasant-
shooting to some western men. The birds, how-
ever, thrived, and their descendants are plentiful
to-day. Later Judge Denny sent a shipment of
ringnecks, and these birds were turned over to a
number of Oregon farmers, who gave the new
arrivals a proper chance. As a result Oregon,
west of the Cascade range, has pheasants in
abundance, and there are plenty of the birds at
other points from Vancouver Island southward.
They are as hardy as the native grouse, thrive
upon the same food, and furnish very fair sport.
The worst feature about them is their love of
sprinting. For all-round running ability, the
Mongolian pheasant is no mean rival of a trout
brook in fine condition. He eats a considerable
quantity of grain too; but for this he more than

Foreign Game 349

pays by destroying great numbers of noxious
insects.

My somewhat limited acquaintance with this
pheasant has not fostered a very high opinion of
its value as a purely sporting bird. Beautiful the
Mongolians are and excellent eating too, but their
footwork is exasperating, and not at all calculated
to improve a good dog. When a pheasant rises
within easy range, the flush is marked by a char-
acteristic whirr and a cackling cry. The flight
is strong and fairly fast. A bird going straight
away is an easy mark, but a right or left quar-
terer at top speed is quite another proposition,
especially when forty or fifty yards away. The
combination of speed and long tail is very apt to
puzzle a novice, who almost invariably misses
through shooting behind.

A good performer on pinnated, or sharptail
grouse, will speedily acquire the knack of pheas-
ant-shooting. Such a man will not underestimate
distance, or fail to swing his gun well ahead, and
he will score well on pheasants after a few trials.

The first specimen to fall to my skill was, I
grieve to state, an illegal quarry. The then new
birds were carefully protected at all times, and I
certainly had no idea of violating the law, in fact,
I had no gun, but was merely out for a stroll. A
strange bird ran across the path and into some
brush, and I picked up a stone and started to in-

350 Foreign Game

vestigate. When the bird flushed and the light
shone fairly on the plumage, I so greatly admired
it that the stone struck exactly in the centre of
that beautiful pheasant’s back. It was a great
chance shot, and for a moment there was jubila-
tion.

Then came a nasty realization that this particu-
lar bird and all of its kin were protected by a law
which carried a penalty about as long as the
wonderful throw. However, there was the dead
pheasant, a particularly fine one too, and there I
was, looking at it, and, incidentally, looking to see
if anybody else was looking.

Presumably a God-fearing, law-abiding citizen
would have gone in and informed on himself, and
got fined, or jailed, to the value of fifty odd dollars.
I didn’t. Instead, I sneaked the bird into the
brush and carefully removed and folded the skin;
then, with the body in a pocket and the skin
inside my vest, I strode in righteousness through
the land, keeping wide of bird-dogs and convers-
ing with no man till my room was reached. A
trifle of arsenic from the druggist’s cured the skin,
then I fared kitchenward and had the body cooked.
It was by no means bad—that is, for a skinned
bird.

That there will come a time when our landed
gentry will have their pheasant-shooting after the
English fashion — keepers, beaters, and all—is

Foreign Game Ter

more than probable. John Bull knows better
than any other man how to get the best possible
sport out of the smallest of areas. He has long
made a study of the pheasant, and has thoroughly
mastered the problem of its rearing, guarding, and
shooting. He has moulded a foreign bird to his
purpose until it fits the conditions like a native,
and in so doing he has changed what once was a
mere addition to a somewhat abbreviated game-
list, into one of its most important items. When
the time arrives, as it eventually must, when cer-
tain portions of this country will bear no distant
resemblance to the older land, the pheasant in all
probability will attain a prominence and impor-
tance like that accorded it in its island stronghold
oversea.

Until quite recently there was a marked ten-
dency upon our side to sneer at British shooting,
especially pheasant-shooting. Unthinking and
ignorant persons appeared to labor under the
delusion that British game was something in the
line of stall-fed, quarry-tame, hand-reared crea-
tures, purposely kept fat and easy in order that
Lord This and Sir That might kill long strings
without a miss and with the least possible trouble
to their high-bred selves. The utter absurdity of
such a notion will be abruptly revealed to the
average American sportsman whenever he may
decide to try a bit of British sport. Unless he be

352 Foreign Game

an exceptionally good shot, he will experience no
difficulty in finding men quite capable of taking
his measure either at the traps or in the field.
While the best all-around shots I have ever seen
certainly have been American professionals and
market-hunters, some of the deadliest performers
in the field here, or anywhere, are British ama-
teurs who learned their art in the school of the
pheasant, red grouse, partridge, cock, and snipe.

It has been my pleasant task to introduce
more than a few Britons to the joys of Bob-white
shooting, and I frankly admit that some of those
same “raw uns” tied my stockings a etl tighter
than was good for the circulation. Furthermore,
the real British sportsman is a glutton for hard
work, a walker from Walkerville, and, usually,
both a good judge and handler of dogs.

PoE eCRANES

THE WHOOPING CRANE

(Grus americana)

Only those who have shot in the Northwest,
West, and Southwest would be apt to rank this
and the following species as game-birds. To the
majority of eastern sportsmen, the name crane
suggests a long-legged, wading, fish and frog
eating, haunter of marshes, streams, and ponds,
and about the last sort of bird a man would care
to eat. All that might be true enough of herons,
but it by no means applies to the rather similar
appearing, but really very different, cranes.

The present species, the whooping crane, is not
only a game-bird in every sense of that term, but
he is one of the most difficult of all game-birds
to get the better of. Indeed, the Canada goose,
wild turkey, whooping crane, and his cousin, the
sand-hill crane, are all capable of thoroughly test-
ing the skill and resource of the craftiest of
sportsmen.

A big swan, elevated upon very long legs, and
equipped with a bill like a bronze dagger, would
roughly resemble this stately bird as he towers
above the prairie grasses. The head of a full-

353

354 The Cranes

grown crane, standing erect, is nearly five feet
above his toes; and from that elevation his mar-
vellously keen golden eyes can note every move-
ment of a prowling foe, near or remote. Many a
time have I taken a long-range rifle and attempted
‘to wriggle over the grass to something like a
reasonably sure range, only to fail. At five hun-
dred yards the crane might appear carelessly
indifferent; at about four hundred his lean head
would rise and remain pointing like a weather-
vane until he decided to vacate the territory,
which usually happened when the rifle was yet
three hundred yards distant. There are men, I
presume, who would pierce a crane’s eye at such
paltry distances, but our paths have not happened
to cross.

I have yet to see a man stalk this bird and
kill him fairly. The nearest ever I came to it
was on a Northwest prairie. A friend was driving
me out to some “chicken” country when we
spied a pair of crane rising like lighthouses, white
and tall, above the sea of grass. I suggested that
we edge in their direction, then whirl dead on
and gallop for it down what wind there was. He
looked at me in a peculiar way, grinned signifi-
cantly, and remarked, “ You old goose — shooter!”
adding the word “shooter” after as long a pause
as he deemed polite.

Something in his manner kept me from insist-

The Whooping Crane 355

ing, but presently I thought of something else.
Under the seat lay a big repeating rifle, and I
suggested that he should walk the team steadily
ahead while I slipped out with the rifle-case and
tried my hand at creeping.

“All right; but I bet the dinner you fail,” he
replied, and out I went.

To get ready without making any conspicuous
movements while lying flat in short grass is not
the easiest of tasks, but finally I managed it ina
style which appeared to be satisfactory. In any
event the big birds stood as motionless as a
couple of trees, and the creeping began. After
wriggling along for some fifty yards the under-
taking began to look promising. Then a dis-
tant voice sang out: “ When they turn up-wind,
they’re going to fly,” and I heeded it, for the
speaker was a veteran plainsman and a master
of bird craft.

The cranes were standing about five yards
apart, but as I wormed along one bird moved
two paces nearer its fellow and turned, facing the
breeze. This movement brought its back toward
me, while the other bird was standing broadside
on. I felt that it might turn at any moment, and
that the next moment both would take wing, so a
shot was decided upon. Lying flat, with a dead
elbow-rest, I drew a bead on the centre of the
snowy body. The rifle never quivered, and at

356 The Cranes

the report one bird leaped into the air and made
off on great waving fans of snow and ebony.

But the other? Ah! the poor other—he lay
like the last snows of winter—a mere drift of
white against the bronzy grass.

With a yell of delight the driver whirled his
ponies and rattled over to the crane, which he
presently brought back in triumph. I still lay in
the grass, thinking things. And this was the cele-
brated crane which no man could stalk —the wary
white sentinel of the grassy sea — the unapproach-
able, spotless warden of the honor of the North?
And I, a tenderfoot, had slain it first throw out
of the box! It was absolutely bewildering.

“Get up out of that! What’s the matter — did
she kick?” shouted my driver; but I merely rolled
over and looked earnestly and sorrowfully at the
beautiful bird.

“You're a wonder! But, say, why didn’t you
hold on the other—he was broadside to you?”
he continued.

To me the glory of the sunshine had paled to
a funereal gray, but I had to answer, and the
answer was — “ Dammit, I did /”

His yell of laughter almost sent the ponies up
in the air, but there was a second barrel coming.
He took one glance at the rifle, then leaped out
and lay down to safely enjoy himself. Reader,
I’m ashamed to speak about that vear sight/ 1

The Whooping Crane 357

had forgotten all about it, and aimed with it just
as it was. He refused to say where it was, but
from the roasting I got, I suspect it was some-
where about 140 in the shade!

Another remarkable shot may be briefly referred
to. It is the habit of the whooping cranes, when
ready to begin the southward flight, to rise in
mighty spirals into the upper air and there float
about, frequently in considerable numbers. Some-
times the birds rise so high that they are lost to
view, and only their trumpeting tells where they
are. Again, they will keep lower, so that their
wheeling, floating flight is plainly visible; and,
occasionally, but not as a rule, they will wheel
overhead within long rifle-shot.

One day, with a friend, I was lying in the grass
beside a Manitoba lake, the resort of many ducks.
It was a warm, still day, with the wonderful north-
ern sunshine at its best. We knew that great
rafts of ducks and many geese surely would come
to the lake toward nightfall, but for the time there
was nothing to do but lounge at ease upon dry
grass. We had with us two guns and a repeat-
ing rifle, the latter for a possible chance at crane.

That chance came, but in a totally unexpected
manner. As we lay, we heard the clatter of the
giant birds from the nor’ard, and eventually a
large flock came drifting in airy spirals directly
over us. There were birds at various heights —

358 The Cranes

some perhaps not more than three hundred yards
above our heads, others so high that they seemed
no larger than gulls. All were floating and
wheeling, and their circling courses blended and
cut into each other in a manner truly bewilder-
ing. Fully half of the birds appeared to be shout-
ing at the other half, and, taken altogether, the
sight was most interesting.

After we had watched them for some time, my
comrade remarked, “What are we two duffers
dreaming about?” As he spoke he seized the
rifle, pointed it at the flock, fired, and at once
handed it over to me. We lay upon our backs
side by side, and all I did was to rest the butt of
the piece on the ground beside me, glance along
the barrel, fire, and pass the rifle back. He took
another shot, then something happened. I fired
in the same careless fashion, and was in the act of
passing back the rifle, when we heard a distinct
“whop!” from above.

“By the Lord Harry, you go¢ one—and here
he comes!” roared my friend.

It was true enough. That storied chance shot
had killed the or rather the crane, and he was
coming like a small avalanche of snowy plumage.
He fell in the alkali water a few yards from the
mud, and after considerable trouble I managed to
get him out without going too deeply into the
Crown Lands Department. The ball had struck

The Sand-hill Crane 359

him squarely in the heart, and needless to say he
was as dead as stale beer.

The cream of the sport with both species of
crane is to be enjoyed on the Pacific side and far
to the southward, but not infrequently the sand-hill
crane furnishes excellent sport at many points in
the “corn belt” of the western states.

THE SAND-HILL CRANE

(Grus canadensis)

Much smaller than his stately white relative,
this crane is possessed of his full share of grace,
beauty, and distrust of white man’s medicine.
The male in perfect plumage is a symphony in
gray —in fact, he is a well-dressed gentleman,
whose every movement is indicative of self-pos-
session and cold reserve. And those desirous of
cultivating his close acquaintance will find their
path beset by difficulties. While considerably
shorter than the white fellow, his eye is fully
as keen and his lean head quite as full of wisdom.
In good condition, he is excellent eating, his chief
diet, like that of his family, being tender green
stuff and ripe grain.

The shooting of this bird, as followed in the
West and Southwest, so closely resembles wild-
goose shooting, that a description of one might
serve for both. The prime requisites are to get
into the line of flight and to conceal oneself in the

360 The Cranes

most natural-looking “hide” and remain motion-
less and watchful. “Get down and keep still” is
the very best advice I can give to crane or goose
shooter. Be the “hide” a hogshead or a pit in
the ground, or a small screen of grass or weeds,
natural or artificial, the only way to get the best
results is to keep covered and wait till the sound of
wings or the clatter of cries tells that the game
is almost directly overhead. It cannot be too
near, for the nearer it is allowed to approach the
more time will there be for the gun to get into
deadly action.

The crane-shooter should remember that such
large birds appear to be much nearer than they
really are, and also that they have wonderfully
sharp eyes. The slightest movement is apt to
be at once noticed, whereupon the birds immedi-
ately sheer off, and what should have been a
golden opportunity is promptly and permanently
ruined. The novice, and not unfrequently the
veteran, finds it a hard task to keep still, es-
pecially when a large flock is bearing down upon
the ambush and calling as only cranes can. The
ringing kor-r-r-r-r-root, pouring from their throats,
thrills like the blare of many trumpets. It is
a veritable call to arms, yet the wise man listens
and grins, and waits with his nose almost driven
into the ground, until the clamor falls from
directly above and he can distinctly hear the

The Sand-bill Crane 361

wiff-wiff of broad feathery fans. When he does
move, it is with the smooth, rubbery celerity of a
serpent working overtime, and he finds himself
almost mixed up with a terrified, flapping host,
out of which he ought to get enough to ease the
strain for the time being.

Possibly a bird may be winged, and, if so, give
it another charge as it goes trotting away. A
winged crane can run at a very fair rate, and
any attempt at chasing it may mean the scaring
off of other approaching flocks; besides, it is only
humane and sportsmanlike to speedily end the
suffering of a maimed victim. Hence, wisdom
and humanity both plead for a prompt settlement
of the matter, and their plea is backed by another
excellent reason. This one projects from the
bird’s face for several inches, and each inch feels
like a foot when the dagger-like affair happens
to encounter an outstretched hand. On account
of his armament, I never voluntarily stoop over
a wounded crane, for one of his unerring jabs
may mean the loss of an eye, or, if the man be
lucky, merely a nasty cut in the face. All the
wounded cranes I have seen were game to the
last, and apparently all ready for a trifle of rapier-
play with any antagonist. Upon one occasion,
an enthusiastic spaniel, with more zeal than judg-
ment, twisted himself free of his collar and broke
away to show what he could do in the way of

362 The Cranes

retrieving. The subsequent yelping was entirely
too long for insertion here, but the spaniel might
have won in the double-nose class any time after.
Only a second-class tailor with the usual note
coming due at the bank can send in his bill with
an equally deadly and exasperating accuracy, at
least so I’ve been told.

While I have shot a few sand-hills at various
points and found the sport very fair, the taking of
the first specimen is the best-remembered ex-
perience. The scene of action was in western
Ontario and the bird in question presumably was
a stray, for he was two dozen miles, or more, from
the nearest resort of a few of his kin.

In the centre of a pasture lay a peculiar pond
of a couple of acres in extent. All about the
pasture rose high wheat and corn lands, while
near by ran a fair-sized river. Beyond question,
the pond had once been the bed of the river,
which had cut a new channel and left the pond
to gradually dry up. At the time referred to, the
water in the pond was about two feet deep at
the deepest part, elsewhere it was little more than
a bog choked with lily pads and bordered with
rice. At one end stood a clump of willows.
Ducks of various kinds, the most numerous being
the beautiful wood-duck, were in the habit of
dropping into the pond about sundown, and a
man concealed among the willows frequently

The Sand- bill Crane 363

could enjoy a fairish bit of sport. The willows
afforded the only “hide,” and by the unwritten
law, the first man on the spot had the right to
that evening’s flight. For this reason, on the
day in question, I was in possession about mid-
afternoon, and prepared to wait till dusk.

The waiting was lazy work, but my cogitations
were interrupted by a big shadow drifting across.
To leap to feet and seize the gun was the natural
impulse, and I snapped at a great bird which was
swinging directly into the blinding glare of an
unclouded sun. For a few seconds eyes were use-
less, then something fell about the centre of the
pond. At first glance I mistook it for the com-
mon great blue heron, then rose the unmistakable
head and neck of a sand-hill. This was an impor-
tant discovery, and the next question was how to
secure the prize. I knew the crane was winged,
and its lying where it fell suggested that a leg also
had been put out of business, which later proved
to be the case.

But how to get him out was the question.
There was an unknown depth of mud at the
bottom of that pond, and parts of it would heave
and quake in a nasty way. To attempt to swim
was entirely out of the question, for a man once
down in that mess would stand a brilliant chance
of stopping there. Finally I decided to reef up
trousers to the fork, to remove boots and socks,

364 The Cranes

lay the socks aside, and replace the boots on bare
feet to protect them while wading. When the
boots were tightly laced to keep out the mud, all
preparations were completed, but I suspect that
the exsemble was highly suggestive of an over-
grown specimen of Grus.

Those who have tackled a quaking bog will
understand what a portion of this task was like.
At first there was only mud, — black, greasy mud,
—of any depth you please, but that mattered little.
There is a way, getting a lot of grass, rice, or
other stuff under your feet, and moving at a
steady pace, which enables one to defy mere mud.
A bit farther in, however, it was different. The
whole business began to sway and heave till it
rolled in slimy waves. Then came the full reali-
zation of what a stumble or error in putting down
afoot might mean, and I heartily cursed the crane
for having fallen in such a place.

At last I neared him, and something-in the
gleam of his steadfast eye suggested caution.
The filthy water was within about four inches of
the uprolled trousers, and I was slowly sinking.
To bend over the bird was too risky. A jab for
an eye would have been the certain penalty, and
that would almost as certainly have meant a back-
ward lurch and a possible loss of balance and gen-
eral mix up, too horrible to contemplate. To edge
a bit closer and provoke a strike at my hand

The Sand-hill Crane 365

seemed the best policy, for the sinking process
was steadily going on. So I edged nearer.

That infernal crane must have read Haggard’s
yarn of Good and his beautiful white legs, for he
appeared to recognize the last visible inch of
white, on which he promptly scored. The touch
of his dagger was the most thrilling thing so far,
but the stroke fully extended his long neck, which
was promptly gripped. Had I been six inches
nearer, his blow might have bored a hole an inch
or so deeper; as it was the red ink and the black
were mixing freely. My personal comments on
cranes unto the third and fourth generation and
swamps from the Flood downward, need not be
dwelt upon. Only the man holding an unchokable
sand-hill crane by the neck, having a freshly bored
hole in his leg, and standing upon an acre or so of
poultice made out of black bread and just begin-
ning to draw, will ever be able to understand.

But the end was not yet. The return had to
be made with due caution, and every now and
then the crane would grab something with his
sound foot and beat with his wings till the storm-
centre looked like a mud volcano. To pick one’s
steps under such conditions is zo¢ so easy as writ-
ing about it. At last, when fairly firm footing
was only a couple of yards away, one bare shin
encountered something which felt like “shell-
burred cable.” The very touch of it produced an

366 The Cranes

involuntary creepy feeling; but when that cable
moved, as it presently and distinctly did, the creepy
feeling flashed into the had been. In its stead
surged up a sprinty, a get-to-shore-p-d-q sort of a
sensation which carried me to terra firma in three
astounding prances. Hence, it zs possible to
traverse quaking bog, if one’s speed be sufficient.
Still, I had my bird, and upon turning to look at
the few spots I had touched during the final spurt,
there was a shiny black head, a wicked-looking
eye, and a goodly length of animated garden-hose,
to remind me that the pond was a favorite haunt
of a lusty breed of black snake.

The next thing to do was to quote a few
stanzas from “The Hanging of the Crane,” in-
serting the more expressive word for the ladylike
“hanging.” Then the prize was carefully killed
and hung on the weeping-willow tree, while I
sought the river for a very necessary house-clean-
ing. I was a bit anxious about the wound in the
leg, for I suspected that the swamp matter might
cause trouble later. However, a thorough wash-
ing and squeezing, a plugging with tobacco, held
fast by a good long bandage from the only place
where such long bandages grow on a man, served
for temporary treatment, and, although the wound
was sore for a time, it caused no serious trouble.

Te MOURNING DOVE

(Zenatdura macroura)

Adult male and female — Entire upper parts, olive-brown, varying to
a bluish gray; sides and back of neck, iridescent; breast, with
a pinkish tinge; belly, buff; tail, long, pointed, the outer
edges conspicuously tipped with white; bill, black; legs and
feet, lake-red. Length about 12 inches. Range, from southern
Maine, southern Canada, and Oregon, south to Panama and the
West Indies.

This beautiful and common bird arrives in the
latitude of New York in March and remains until
November. It is a swift, strong flier, passing with
a whistling sound which distinguishes it from all
other northern birds. The cry of this bird, from
which it derives its name, is doleful indeed. No
bereaved creature, wailing o’er its dead, could utter
a sadder or more pleading appeal than the long-
drawn “ Coo-ah —coo-coo-coo,’ which this dainty
fraud sends floating through the soft April air.
I have listened to the dove of an evening, for the
cry is more potent when the shadows begin to
creep, until the small wretch has fostered a fit of
the dismals which demanded a brisk walk as the
best remedy.

But mourn he ever so hopelessly, he means not
a word of it. On the contrary, he is telling the

367

368 The Mourning Dove

object of his affections his own cute version of
that same old he which has made all sorts of
doves perform all sorts of foolish capers ever since
the original lover hammered his sentiments on a
chunk of rock and left it where his barefooted lady
could strike it and get stone-bruise or heart-bruise
as the case happened to pan out.

The ‘nest of the dove’ 1s one of the crudest
examples of bird architecture that can well be
imagined. It consists of a few twigs, carelessly
arranged, and so loose in structure that the two
white eggs are easily visible through the bottom
of the affair. In the plains country, the nest is
placed upon the ground, but in the forested
regions, some low, flat branch bears the burden.
A fir tree in some park or garden is a favorite
site, presumably because one of its flat branches
requires fewer sticks to serve the purpose of keep-
ing the eggs together, and where the birds can
warm them for the necessary time. Yet, with all
their carelessness about the building of the house,
the doves are devoted parents, the female fre-
quently feigning lameness to the risk of capture
while endeavoring to draw a too prying investi-
gator away from her helpless squabs. The young
are fed, like young domestic pigeons, on softened
food regurgitated from the parent’s crop. Like
the domestic pigeon, too, the dove is a great
drinker, thrusting the bill into the water and

The Mourning Dove 369

gulping it down as though in a desperate
hurry.

The flesh of the mourning, or Carolina, dove
when in good condition is exceedingly palatable,
which causes the bird to be eagerly pursued in
certain parts of the country, notably the South.
There, dove-shooting is a popular sport, and a
green hand at it will find the swift fliers anything
but easy marks. I have done but little of it, and
that mostly in the North, the chief reason for the
neglect of the dove being the abundance of other,
and in my opinion better, game. Late in the
season the fully matured birds scatter far and wide
during the day, and toward dusk come whistling
back to the common roost. At that time, a man
in the line of flight can have some very pretty
shooting, single chances being the rule as the doves
straggle past. At many points in the South, this
flight is heavy and the guns keep up an irregular
popping. In the North, one could hardly expect
more than from a half-dozen to a dozen chances
of an evening.

A great many excellent people are given to rail-
ing against dove-shooting, but their objections
have no solid foundation. The fact is that, from
the story of the Flood down to that more notable
reference to the Dove, we have naturally held the
name dear. Had the present dove chanced to
have been named “ chicken-hawk,” or “ crow,” not

370 The Mourning Dove

a dear old lady in the land would have cared one
continental how many of the breed we sportsmen
butchered. Then, too, the plaintive sobbing of the
love-note appeals to tender hearts, as does the bill-
ing and cooing of all doves appeal to the romantic
side of those who are doing likewise, or who are
thinking of future possibilities in that line. Hence
the sportsman who shoots doves must needs be a
hard-hearted brute — that is, unless he happens to
enter the lists as a wooer. Then, I’ve heard, for
of course I have no personal knowledge, that even
a manly, straightforward sportsman can be for-
given — nay, even encouraged, possibly through a
Christian desire to wean him from the cruelty of
his ways. And wise men, in pity of ignorance
perhaps, have even whispered to me that a mess
of doves is not necessarily a direct insult, and that
one nicely mounted—say in a position which
would enable it to brood on the side of a hat —is
no bad scheme.

One of the deadliest foes of the dove and of
many of our common birds is the red squirrel.
Any unusual commotion among our feathered
friends of garden and orchard is apt to be caused
by puss or the red rascal. The squirrel’s prey is
the eggs, which he prefers when the young are
almost ready to leave the shell. He will hold
an egg in his paws like a nut, and swiftly nib-
ble away the shell until he can draw forth the

The Mourning Dove 271

bleeding dainty, which he devours with keen relish.
Those who notice small pieces of blood-stained
eggshell scattered under the trees will seldom err
in blaming the squirrel for the murderous work.
I have many times seen red squirrels raiding nests
in pine, fir, and fruit trees, and I suspect that nests
upon the ground are robbed more often than most
people imagine. I have shot squirrels red-handed
and red-lipped from a feast, also while carrying an
egg, while more times than I can now recall I
have driven the robber from a nest before he had
accomplished his purpose. A raid upon a dove’s
nest will serve as an illustration.

Before my old home grew many stately pines and
firs. As these treesaged, they became rather ragged
in appearance, so, to induce a denser growth, and
also to supply the green for church decoration and
Christmas tree, the top of a great tree was sawed
off each year and the exposed end capped with a
bit of board. The doves soon found these boards,
and were not slow in discovering that they were
ideal nesting-places. I used to take the young
doves and tame them, for they are most interest-
ing pets.

One day the persistent scolding of a red squir-
rel attracted my attention, and picking up the
best remedy for such rascals, I stole out to one
of the “dove-trees”” as we called them. On the
nest was the mother bird, and sticking to the bark,

372 The Mourning Dove

a few inches below the nest, was the red thug.
The two were playing a small but thrilling selec-
tion from the great drama of life and death. The
heroic dove was firmly braced above her almost
hatched treasures, and with one wing raised as a
fencer raises his swordless hand, she faced her foe
with the courage of despair. Her fighting wing
was nervously patting her side, ready for instant
action, while her dainty head kept nodding an
undying defiance. As I held the best trump
out, I let them play a bit.

From his position, all the squirrel could see
was the dove’s head and her wild eye, and, skir-
mish as he would, that eye never lost him. If he
shifted around the trunk, the dove turned with
him —in fact, he could go around the tree, but
not around the dove. His object, of course, was
to rush the position, and I soon discovered that
there was but one place which offered him an
easy course, and that he knew it. All the time
he kept up a curious purring noise and a rasping
with his teeth as though he were gnawing some
hard substance — this, in all probability, intended
to intimidate the dove.

“Stay with him, old lady —there’s reénforce-
ments,” I chuckled to myself, but I wanted to
see more.

Presently the squirrel worked back to the real
point of attack, and with a scream he thrust his

The Mourning Dove B98

head above the nest. With a bat like the thump
of a boxing-glove, the wing met his nose, and only
the strong hooks on his hind feet prevented his
being knocked clean out of the arena. As it was,
he hung for an instant head downward and he
slid a couple of feet before he could recover
himself.

Talk about language! The sputtering tirade
would have made a common scold envious. He
was mad now, clear through, and presently he
again stole upward to repeat his attack and to
again encounter the clever wing. Another and
yet another attempt was baffled in the same way,
and if his piratical nose didn’t tingle, his remarks
were a poor indication of his feelings. Then he
acquired wisdom. A foot above the nest was a
small branch from which he could drop fairly
upon the dove’s back, and this he presently
seemed to figure out. His change of attack at
once filled the dove with fear, as her demeanor
plainly showed. But the thing had gone far
enough.

“None of that — that’s foul!” I remarked.

Instantly the late bravo flattened with fear,
then he made a flying leap to a main limb, and
from that to another tree. Not caring to shoot
so near the nest, I chased after him, and cer-
tainly he showed me what a terrified red squirrel
can do. From that tree he hurled himself toa

374 The Mourning Dove

roof, and as no wise man shoots shot into his own
shingles, I let him run. Thence to the roof of a
big greenhouse (another poor place for a shot),
while I kept within easy range. Finally to the
top scantling of a picket fence, along which he
coursed like a puff of red smoke. I forget how
many pickets I held ahead of him. It matters
not, for the result went to show that I had led
him plenty, and leaded him more than plenty.

hak OUAIL AND THE GROUSE
OF tHE PACIFIC COAST

By T. S. VAN DYKE

THE QUAIL AND THE GROUSE
OPE. ET ACIEIC COAST

THE VALLEY-QUAIL OF CALIFORNIA

On the Pacific Coast are three varieties of the
blue or crested quail, of which the most numer-
ous is the valley-quail, so called from its gathering
in the fall in great bands of hundreds, and even
thousands, which, before they were much hunted,
spent most of the time in the valleys instead of in
the hills where they were hatched. But it lives
everywhere from coast to mountain top, except in
the higher ranges, where it disappears toward five
thousand feet above the sea. From 1875 to 1885
I lived where these birds were in sight or sound,
morning, noon, and night, the whole year round,
and never saw any evidence of their raising a
second brood in a season. An occasional late
brood is doubtless due to the destruction of the
first nest. It roosts in terrific cactus, into which
it flies at full speed, or in trees out of which it
goes at dawn like a charge of grape-shot, and as
it loses no eggs by wet weather and suffers none
from winter freezing, its natural enemies cannot

377

378 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

keep it down. Up to the rapid settlement of the
country and the advent of the cheap breech-loader,
its numbers were beyond all comprehension, espe-
cially in southern California. But under the rigid
protection it now has by a limit of twenty-five a
day to the gun and the stoppage of market-shoot-
ing, it will soon be plenty again.

Its length is about eleven inches for the largest
specimens, with wing of four and a quarter, or
nearly the same length as Bob-white, with wing
about half an inch shorter. But as the tail is
about an inch longer than that of Bob-white, it
is really a smaller bird and not so plump. Its
color is ashy blue or slate, with chestnut gloss
running into warm golden tints underneath,
mottled with tawny white, black and cinnamon
on the belly, with black throat on the male, a
white line over the eye, and white collar around
the black throat. Both sexes have a plume of
black, imbricated feathers about an inch and a
quarter long, curving forward over the bill. In
shape it is very graceful, and in action far quicker
than Bob-white, except on the wing, where the
difference in speed amounts to little; although the
common opinion is to the contrary, because under
the different conditions it is a harder bird to shoot.

Up toa certain point the valley-quail has not
the slightest fear of man, but rather enjoys show-
ing that he is not afraid. No other game-bird

The Valley-Quail of California 379

lives so continuously in sight of man, advises him
so industriously of his presence, and makes him-
self so much at home in his garden. Morning,
noon, and night his call rings from the hillside by
the house; he stands on the granite boulder and
surveys you with an air of defiant impudence,
trots along the road in front of your horse, and
helps himself to your finest grapes. With encour-
agement he will become tame enough to asso-
ciate with your chickens and dust himself in your
flower beds. In a cage he makes himself quickly
at home, and with plenty of room would probably
breed in captivity.

No other bird, except his lively cousin of the
desert, Gambel’s partridge, equals this bird in vivac-
ity. Unless disturbed he moves little on the wing,
but his feet are rarely at rest, and when they are
his tongue keeps up a low twittering. One can
hardly see as much of him as I did for years with-
out believing that to some extent he talks. Some
of his many notes are going nearly all the time,
even in the smallest bevy. The most common of
these is the assembling call, which he keeps going
when there is no need of it, so far as you can see.
This is of three flutelike notes, with the accent
generally strong on the second and sounding much
like O-hz-o. But the accent is often shifted to the
first and last notes, so that it sounds like 7uck-
a-hoe. Again, the first is suppressed, the middle

380 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

one more strongly drawn, and the last dropped
so that the call becomes a ringing £-wozck. The
alarm is a sharp whzt-whzt-whzt of metallic ring,
mingled with a muffled wook-wook-wook k-wook-
ook; and when the birds are so scattered that they
rise singly, many give a sharp chirp-chirp-chirp
when they rise near you, while nearly all that rise
wild are silent. The brooding call is a soft wah
or waw from the male on some bush or cactus
near where the female is sitting. During this
time he often utters a sharp Zee-oo, but this is most
always when he is on the ground and generally out
of sight in cover; while the other is almost never
heard except when he is in sight on some perch.

By that class of sportsmen to whom size, flavor,
heads, etc., count for nothing, but who love game
for its slippery qualities, the valley-quail where
well known stands at the head of American
game-birds, being surpassed in smartness only by
Gambel’s partridge. For no other bird equally
approachable and of equal numbers can so puzzle
even the expert as these two. Like its cunning
cousin, the valley-quail trusts first to its legs to
escape, and often when you see one run along the
ground and then break into flight, it seems a
needless absurdity, for the increase in the speed
is so slight. No one need have any scruples
about shooting at a single bird running, especially
when dodging among small bushes.

The Valley-QQuail of California 381

One of the great bands often allows you to
come within sixty or seventy yards on the edge
of the plain, and then often moves like an army.
First the pickets are driven in, running into, or
flying over, the main body, to alight in front.
Then part of the main body moves safely out of
reach with every swift leg moving in concert. If
the danger is imminent the whole moves; some-
times as a whole, shifting to the left or right, or
going straight ahead, or reversing with a quick
wheeling motion; or sometimes in platoons which
run in all manner of flank and oblique movements,
but with heads well up and all in line and orderly
array that would charm a drill sergeant. Unless
pressed too closely, they rarely take wing, though
a few of the birds may flutter upon stones for a
better inspection of the intruder, and some of the
rear guard may fly over the head of the main
column. But when you come too near there is
a roar of wings that often rivals the distant
thunder, and the whole flock is in air in a myriad
lines of curling, twisting, darting, and chirping blue.

At about one hundred and fifty yards, and often
less, the flock alights with every leg in rapid
motion the instant it touches earth. If you are
not expeditious, there will be nothing within a
hundred yards of that spot by the time you arrive,
and if you are a trifle too slow the whole hunt
begins again anew. : In this way a flock may lead

382 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

the tyro up hill and down dale for miles without
giving him a shot that will bag anything. But
when chased up rapidly and flushed two or three
times as soon as they can alight, with a few shots
fired over their heads to scare them, the solid
ranks suddenly break and scatter over several
acres of ground. In this many lie as closely as
Bob-white ever lies, depending on the amount
and quality of the ground cover, while many more
rise at five, ten, fifteen, or twenty yards and up-
ward, from so many unsuspected places and in
such varied twists, that most of them call for the
very highest skill with the gun. Many more rise
far out of shot, while others steal away on silent
foot, and still others lie so that you can almost
tread on them. For the latter a good dog is
needed, but the others are liable to spoil him
unless great care be taken to keep him in order
in their riotous presence. In this way bags of
two hundred and fifty to a gun, with many more
crippled and lost by their speed of foot, were not
uncommon without a dog fifteen years ago, with
almost a certainty of a hundred and fifty. But
this was only for the expert, and nothing was more
amazing to the tyro than the few feathers he
would at first get out of the largest flock. And
many an expert from the East, who had not
learned the ways of this quail, was equally amazed
when he found the weight of his game far less

The Valley-Quail of California 383

than that of the ammunition he had shot away.
For the first day or two he was quite likely to
return from the field with pockets equally empty
of both ammunition and game.

But persecution has made this quail far more
puzzling even to the best expert. Few are the
birds to-day that do not run or fly before you are
within one hundred yards. We used to think
persecution would make them lie better. But it
has been the reverse, though their tendency to
lie is still the only hope of the sportsman. To-
day they travel on the wing for hundreds of yards,
even crossing deep and broad canons, whereas
fifteen years ago they rarely took to wing unless
going to or from roost. Once it was almost a cer-
tainty that the largest flock would alight within
two hundred yards; and if it flew over a ridge,
the chances were many to one that it touched
ground soon after passing the crest. Now the
flight is twice or thrice and often several times
as long. And if they go over a ridge the great
puzzle is to know before it is too late on what
part of the slope over the next ravine they
alighted, or whether they went clear over the
second crest; or whether they went up or down
the ravine, which they never used to do. And if
you do not quickly settle these points, the whole
flock will again be together and under such full
leg power that the hunt begins all over again.

384 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

Formerly they were easily found by their assem-
bling call, which they kept always going at sucha
rate that it would generally enable you to locate
any flock within a quarter of a mile or more. But
now they have learned the use of silence. And
they know how to keep still before you come as
well as after. And instead of large, noisy flocks
in the valleys, they are now in smaller bands high
up the hillsides and more out of sight in the
brush. Every rise of the flock is now apt to be
out of shot, and it is only at the single ones that
one can point the gun with any hope, while the
rise of these is more than double what it was.
Instead of a great roaring blue cloud, you see
more often only a string of dark dots stretching
over some towering ridge, from which the sound
of wings is barely audible in the distance.

When a flock first touched ground from a flight,
you were once quite certain to get a shot if you
were there soon enough. Now it is generally
impossible to reach that spot in time or the next
or even the next place. On the place where a
big flock first alighted after scattering, one could
once find many birds still lying closely an hour or
more after chasing the rest in different directions.
But to-day it is quite a waste of time to tramp
over old spots, though in a few places they still lie
well in good cover. The average rise both of the
flock and of single birds has also greatly increased.

The Valley-Quail of California 385

Only last August 20th, 1901, while hunting deer
on the Santa Monica Mountains, some thirty
miles from Los Angeles, California, I saw thou-
sands of quail, many of which were not yet full
grown. None trotted along the trail ahead of me
as in the olden time, but all rose wild, and made
long flights, whether I was on foot or horseback.
Instead of two hundred or over, the best experts
are now content with thirty or forty, while fifty is
a big bag even where birds are the most plenty.
And nearly all are ready now to concede, what I
claimed twenty years ago, that twenty-five quail
in a day afford all the sport, exercise of skill, and
recreation that any reasonable person should
desire.

Once good shooting could be had without a
dog because the flocks were so noisy one could
locate them by the ear more quickly than the dog
could by scent. But now a dog is almost a neces-
sity on most grounds, to find the birds in the first
place, as well as to keep track of them after rising.
And he must be a marvel of speed and endurance,
a salamander in heat and dry air, a paragon of
patience and obedience, or the wily game will give
him the slip and leave him too hot and breathless
to be of use for some time. And he must be an
equal marvel of good sense, and his master still
more so, or the excitement will be too much for
him. California is breeding dogs equal to the

386 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

emergency; but it is no easy matter to cultivate
the high speed and endurance necessary, and at
the same time restrain the carelessness such a
pace is sure to cause. When you consider that
the finest eastern dog is nowhere in this race, or
if he is, is liable to be worthless in a short time,
you can understand the task breeders and trainers
have had. But the dog rises to the emergency,
and as the quails annually learn more about the
range of a gun and the speed of man, so the dog
learns to go faster without flushing them and how
to crowd them without passing the danger line,
until the contest of brute against brute is now the
finest exhibition on earth, and enough to reward
one for a long tramp with the gun left at home.

THE MOUNTAIN-QUAIL

When we climb the larger hills of the Pacific
Coast to where the perennial brooks sing down
dark defiles, and the columbine and the tiger-lily
begin to flame from deeper shades, we hear a
ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-chee-ah from the dense green of the
lilac or the bristling red of the manzanita, so
plaintive yet so sweet that we are at once brought
toa halt. Or along the hills around your camp
you may be awakened from your morning nap by
a clot-cloi-cloi-cloi-clot as silvery as ever fell from
feathered throat. And it may swell again at
eveningtide where the mimulus pours its fountain

CALIFORNIA MOUNTAIN-QUAIL

The Mountain- Quail 387

of gold over the old dark rocks, or from the beds
of fern around the little meadow where the iris
blows.

When you hear the first call, which sometimes
sounds more like guzt-guct-guit-guit-guece-ah, you
may see a new quail steal softly out of sight. Or
he may turn to look at you with swelling breast
of slate-blue tinged with the olive and brown that
robe most of the back. A chestnut throat bor-
dered with black on the sides, and that again with
white, dark cinnamon underneath, with sides in
broad bands of black and reddish white, with two
curving stripes of white along the sides of the
back, and two long, slender plumes of jet nodding
backward over the trim little head, the whole cov-
ering a body apparently much larger and plumper
than that of Bob-white, catch your eye at once.
Another hops upon a stone beside him to take a
better look at you, and then beside a fallen log
you mark another little back of rich olive-brown,
while all around little feet go rustling gently out
of sight. They may seem very tame, yet through
all their simplicity runs an undertone of caution ;
and before you know it a dozen or more birds have
completed a close inspection of you and vanished
as softly as the shadows of the oaks in the falling
of night. They act as if they would like to trust
you if the cowardly little legs were not so weak.
Yet they allow the legs to furnish the logic of the

388 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

occasion, and the artless trust they have for a
moment reposed in you suddenly seems the sub-
limity of art.

Thus acted once the mountain-quail, and so he
still acts in those sections where he has not yet
learned the duplicity of man. But in most cases
he has learned in the school of experience a very
different style of art. And there are few scholars
more apt in learning about modern guns and pow-
ders; the scratching of tenderfoot leggings against
the stiff arms of the wild cherry will now start up
a silent leg-energy that will leave one wondering
if such a thing as the mountain-quail ever really
existed.

This quail can live at or near sea level appar-
ently as well as the valley-quail. But it loves the
wooded glens and singing brooks of the higher
ranges, and is at home from where the timber
begins to cast enough shade at about three thou-
sand feet, to far away up the slopes where the gray
squirrel whisks his bushy tail no more; where the
lavender of the band-tailed pigeon is seen only as
it drifts over the deep blue of the cafion far below,
and where the coyote, the fox, and the wildcat
bring no more anxiety. Though sometimes seen
where the arcades of alder that arch over the hiss-
ing brook run out into lowland willows, it is, in
the southern part of California, a bird of the high
mountains. On the great San Pedro Martir of

The Mountain- Quail 389

Lower California (Mexico) it is found where stu-
pendous boulders, piled into cathedral towers,
almost hide the giant sugar-pines that struggle
through the rifts between them. But I never saw
it below the mountain’s top, or in the first few
hundred feet of the mighty gulches that plunge
abruptly down. As, however, we approach the
northern line of California, where the rainfall is
greater, and the timber runs much nearer sea level,
it becomes more of a lowland bird, until, in Ore-
gon, it may almost be called the common quail of
the country ; for it runs out into the edges of the
valleys, and in the thickets adjoining meets the
valley-quail, which there is fast becoming more
scarce.

Like the valley-quail, the mountain-quail is
easily tamed, and might be utilized in those parts
of the East where the winter snows are too much
for Bob-white.

With plenty of room it might be induced to
breed in captivity. Where I lived in 1878 there
were two that ran with the chickens, and went
into the same coop with them every night. They
were so tame that I could almost pick them up,
and with the same effort they could probably have
been made as tame as any chicken. For many
months after being brought from their wilder
home they stayed about the place with no re-
straint, but as both were males, the question of

390 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

breeding could not be determined. Finally, one
disappeared, and after looking lonely and sad for
a few weeks the other disappeared. As chickens
were vanishing in the meantime, za the fox, coyote,
and wildcat, there is no reason to believe that the
quails left because weary of captivity.

It is commonly said that this quail is of fine
flavor. It is dry and insipid compared to Bob-
white. This still leaves considerable margin for
excellence, and in the hands of a cook who knows
something besides those cabalistic words “ quail on
toast” a very good dish may be made of it. But
slowly desiccated on one side of the fire and then
laid out on a bit of toast slowly desiccated on the
other side, in California style, itis the most ridicu-
lous combination I know of. It is the same with
the other quails, and even in northern Mexico I
have found the blue quail the same way. Onecan
live on them a long time without cloying, and the
question of a quail a day for thirty days has no
application to these birds.

The mountain-quail cannot be classed among
the birds that are regularly hunted like the valley-
quail. Its pursuit is more accidental, as it is rarely
plenty enough to justify a special trip. Though
it breeds in the same numbers as the valley-quail,
and apparently has fewer enemies, it is scarce com-
pared with it, while it is so wild and slippery in
most places that it should be very plenty to give

The Mountain- Quail 391

much of a bag. The only places where I have
seen it plenty enough are in the wild and almost
inaccessible parts of the Coast Range of Oregon
that appear on the map as unsurveyed. Why it
should be so I cannot imagine; for the conditions
are the same in many other places as to food,
etc., while it is nowhere in that country kept down
by the gun. But I have there seen dozens of
bevies in a morning’s hunt for elk, with every in-
dication that in the salal and ferns they would lie
well to a dog. I believe a bag of fifty a day could
easily be made there, in places, though I did not
try to shoot any. In most places a bag of a dozen
would be good, and ordinarily they would bother
a dog far worse than the valley-quail or his desert
relative. It does not unite in large packs like the
other two quails, so that you lack the numbers,
which, in case of the others, make up for the run-
ning away of so many. You must generally hunt
a single bevy, or, at most, two or three together.
The greater part of its range lacks the ground
cover that allows the other quails to hide well,
and everywhere he wears legs that forget none
of their cunning. Though not quite so swift of
foot as the Arizona quail, the mountain-quail
knows even better where to run to and generally
inhabits ground where he can utilize to the best
this information. There is no finer judge of up-
hill, and if you are laden with “walking shoes”

392 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

and other fashionable toggery, he seems perfectly
aware of it, and will give you the fullest opportu-
nity to get your money’s worth of bliss out of
them, especially if the day is hot. He seems to
know, too, that you boast a gun that will clear the
brush and bag the game at the same discharge,
and he appears to be curious how it will work.
No other bird tempts Providence so much, and
no other is better able to do it. He lingers just
enough to lead you on, and runs just enough to
induce the tenderfoot to tear up with a charge of
shot the exact spot he has just vacated. He flies
just far enough in the open to make the ordinary
shot believe he can get him, and then dodges
around some dense brush just quickly enough
to show him that he cannot. And he deceives
the best brush shot with the idea that he is going
to lie close enough for a good snapshot in the
thickest part of the brush, when he is scudding
out of sight up-hill as fast as his legs can carry
him. He flies no faster than Bob-white, and
twists no more, yet he is a far harder bird to bag
on account of his rising farther off, and from
unexpected places. From this and the extra
toughness of all these quail arises the belief that
they are faster fliers and harder to hit than Bob-
white, which is not true. If Bob rose the same
and without being pointed by a dog, he would be
just as hard, except that the duller color of these

The Mountain- Quail 393

birds, in some kinds of cover, makes a little differ-
ence. Sowith the size. “It is much larger than
Bob-white,” says Dr. Coues. But its tail is nearly
an inch longer, and the wings nearly as much
longer, while it is fuller feathered about the body.
When picked the difference is more apparent
than real.

There is but one way to get good shooting out
of this bird, and that is to scare and scatter it as
quickly as possible, the same as with the valley-
quail. Many will often lie well enough, then, to
give you some chance, which must be quickly
taken. But others will run in spite of all you
can do, and are hard enough to hit on the ground
when dodging about. By the time you have
hazed them enough to make them lie well, you
are almost in the same condition, unless dressed
in a manner that allows high speed. The way
they can run up-hill, hopping and fluttering from
rock to rock, and making you believe they are not
moving rapidly, while you are scrambling breath-
less up from below, and all the time just out of
shot, is very puzzling. And about the time you
think you have driven them to the top of some
ridge, with nothing but down-hill on the other
side, the way they fool you by being not there
when you arrive is one of the most interesting
features of life behind the gun.

394 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

GAMBEL’S PARTRIDGE
THE QUAIL OF THE DESERT

The Sierra Nevada cuts off the rainfall so that,
in a few miles after passing its crest, the eastern
slope becomes perfect desert, in many places the
most dangerous in the world. Though the valley-
quail in some portions of the western slope has
shown his ability to thrive without water, and
apparently without feed, he does not pass this
mountain crest to any extent, though there are
many places where he could prosper as well as
on the other slope. On the eastern slope his
place is taken by the brightest and most active
of all the game-birds of earth, Gambel’s par-
tridge, a rover and lover of the desert. There
are places enough like the rich bottoms of the
Colorado River and the farms of Salt River Val-
ley to prove that this bird knows all about the
fatness of earth, and does not degenerate in the
fulness of its bounties. Yet without a sigh he
leaves the rich alfalfa fields, vineyards, and or-
chards of the irrigated sections to scramble among
the fiery rocks that bound the blazing plain, and
seems as happy under the mocking shade of a
bush that only intensifies the heat by stopping
the breeze as he is under the dark chapuli of
Sonora, that stands as solidly green as the finest
live-oak. So much is he in love with dry air,

Gambel’s Partridge 395

dry ground, and eternal sun that he does not pass
the crest of the Sierra to the west, although he
could certainly thrive there with the valley-quail.
The farthest western point at which I have found
him was on the Mojave Desert near Dagget, on
the meridian of San Bernardino, only twelve miles
east of the longitude of San Diego. On this
eastern slope of the Sierra he is found through-
out a long range, though his greatest numbers
are in Arizona and Sonora.

The same in general color, size, form, and
habits as the valley-quail of California, he re-
sembles him also in manner of breeding and run-
ning into large packs of hundreds and even
thousands in the fall. He varies the notes in so
many ways that they can hardly be classified, and
yet they are so nearly the same that one at once
recognizes them. But in the distribution of the
colors and especially in the action of the bird,
you at once recognize a distinctly different being.
The chestnut cap beneath his nodding plume of
jet, the island of jet upon his breast, with the
broad bands of cinnamon on the sides striped
with white, —all these, in contrast with his ashy
blue coat, give him an air of something you can-
not describe, yet plainly an improvement on the
style of his wily cousin of the western coast. In
activity and ability to take care of himself under
the most adverse conditions, this desert bird is

396 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

plainly the superior of the other. You need
never inquire where he gets water, or even food,
for he can certainly go without water, and often,
so far as you can see, dispenses as readily with
food. Yet he is always happy and fat, and ready to
leave in the lurch the best dogs, the best legs, and
the best guns his native land can turn out. For
this reason many, at first, pronounce him a fraud.
But many more have an irresistible inclination to
try him again, an appetite that grows by what it
feeds upon, until every one who loves game that
can get away in neat style is ready to pronounce
him the leader in smartness of all our game-birds.

There is something intensely human about the
way Gambel’s partridge can toy with your bright-
est hopes and keep your wits on a tension as
severe as the most slippery of your beloved race.
And when you consider the small number that
with great effort you can bag out of the largest
flock, you will be again reminded of another two-
legged animal you may have hunted. It looks,
too, so humanly innocent before you are well
embarked in the chase. Seen from a wagon, it
often looks so mild and gentle that one unversed
in the tricks of game may say: —

“T don’t see how you can shoot so innocent a
thing.”

And it does often seem mere murder; for the
flock may be massed and looking at you at that

Gambel's Partridge 397

distance that is so deadly to a bit of pattern
paper. But it is much more likely seventy yards
or more, where no one but a tenderfoot would
think of shooting into the flock. Perhaps this is
on the deep bottom lands of the Colorado River,
where the mesquite, that on the open plain forms
such a light shade with its feathery foliage, is
massed into solid green that forms long winding
arcades, or stands alone in clumps of giant size
in a tangle of a thousand twisting arms as snaky
as the head of Medusa.

Probably the flock does not deign to rise at
your approach, but vanishes down one of the
shaded aisles of the timber on the most deceptive
legs that ever carried a bird, and out of the
wagon leaps the tenderfoot to sneak upon it.
He keeps out of sight behind a mesquite, and
with determination glistening in his eye moves
on as rapid a walk as he can. By all means let
his determination glisten. You will get no shoot-
ing until the birds are scattered, and a dozen
tenderfeet in full run would only improve matters.

By the time the tenderfoot emerges from the
cover where he last saw the birds he hears them
calling over a hundred yards away. He hastens
there “one to find the call sounding still as far
ahead, if not a little more so. Nothing on the
ground, nothing in the trees, no sound of buzzing
wings or rustling feet, and even the tender

398 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

hearted chap who thought it so wicked to shoot
them begins now to wonder if the tenderfoot can
hit one. Having had some experience with the
California quail, you take the field, but quickly
wish you had left home that fancy coat, those
store leggings, those hobnailed shoes, and other
regulation nuisances; while Tenderheart begins
to wonder how one of those birds would taste if
well broiled. If you would dress as I do for this
chase, with only a shirt, pants, and hat, with buck-
skin moccasins and only two dozen cartridges,
with no whiskey flask or canteen, you would soon
have them scattered and be in good shape to
shoot. But by the time you have them scattered
the fashionable sudorifics with which you are
laden have had their effect in this hot climate,
and you are about ready to pronounce this quail-
shooting the meanest of all sublunary humbugs.
“Scattered,” did I say? It seems rather as if
they were gone forever. For only one or two
calls can you hear, and they are far away. It
looks as if the flock had only acquired speed
from the pursuit. And it is often quite puzzling
to tell when the birds have run away from you,
and when they have scattered and are lying
hidden all around you. But as you move ahead
a few rods there is a sudden burst of wings over
your head in a big mesquite, and you wheel about
and get the gun to your shoulder just in time to

Gambel’s Partridge 399

see exactly nothing, but hear another burst of
wings from what is now behind you. You wheel
once more just in time to see nothing, but from
the next mesquite ahead there comes a roar from
a dozen pair of wings, making a dim, blue haze
through the green that is gone before you can
turn the gun upon it. Then as suddenly all
is still in all the vast tangles of branches and
feathery green around you. You thrash with the
gun the branches of a huge mesquite that droop
along the ground, but nothing moves. You go
to the other side and repeat the thrashing, when
out of the side you just left whizz a dozen wings.
You make a quick shot at the first bluish haze
you see through the green, but on the other side
you look in vain for a feather, and conclude that
if any shot got through that mass of limb and
twigs it was too much exhausted to do any busi-
ness that day.

You then decide to utilize the tenderfoot to
hammer on one side of a tree while you stand
ready on the other. A very good scheme, but as
you take your position your presence sends a half-
dozen birds buzzing out of the top of a mesquite,
and so close to the head of the tenderfoot that
you dare not shoot. Meanwhile another bird
whips out of the bottom of the clump of mes-
quite, scuds around out of your sight, and then
rises into flight in a line with its heaviest mass.

400 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

But it makes a slight miscalculation about the
relative merits of the two men, and in trying to
dodge the tenderfoot it curves outward to where
the shot from your gun makes a tangent with its
course, and it goes whirling down out of a cloud
of feathers of white, chestnut, and _ slate-blue.
Tenderheart comes running from the wagon to
look at it, feels of its breast, and inquires about the
best mode of cooking it, and then looks around to
see what are the prospects of getting some more.

But you suddenly find the trees empty, the call
of the birds more rare and farther off. They are
only hiding more closely, but you do not know
that and think they are gone. I do not mean to
say that it would help you much if you did know
it, for it takes some time to realize the tramping
and retramping that must be done and the quick-
ness with the gun necessary to make a respectable
bag out of even the largest flock. But if you did
understand them and were properly dressed, you
could make a bag such as cannot be made to-day
on any game-bird east of the Rocky Mountains,
and use up more ammunition in doing it than on
any other bird that flies. But being a novice
with these birds, you decide that they are gone,
that this is not the best kind of ground anyhow,
and that something more open is desirable. In
which Tenderheart cheerfully concurs, for though
he might not admit it, he would like to see man

Gambel’s Partridge 401

triumph — at least enough to insure to-morrow’s
breakfast.

A little nearer the river is a patch of arrow-
weed in which the game will surely he well.
This is about as dense as Indian corn sown for
fodder, seven or eight feet high, a mass of brown
stems and green leaves with the top almost a level
floor of green. It is little trouble to scatter a
flock in this. And it is so easy to walk around
the edges, it will surely be easy to force the birds
into flight; for the patch is not very wide and you
can walk into it if necessary to start the game.
Exactly. The birds do rise from it at just about
the time and places you expect. But they have a
marvellous intuition about the relative heights of
arrowweed and the human figure, and lose no
time in the application of their wisdom. 26666600,
goes a bird from near the edge, and through the
dim haze made by the leaves at the top of the
cover you catch sight of a curve of blue just as it
starts away on a straight line over the top of the
arrowweed. And this straight line happens to be
level with the top of the cover, and only five
inches above it. Which means that in about
five feet from where you first discover it, it is
out of sight. And if in desperation you should
make a snap shot at its course, the chances are
many that you would not touch it, and many
more that you would never find it if you did.

402 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

So you think you will go to the thin mesquite
that borders the arid plain where the cactus and
dragon’s blood with the bright green of the pala
verde make the birds tarry just long enough for
you to come within shot, but not enough to hide
them so that you cannot see them. Blue and
chestnut soon flash among the burning rocks, and
the more you quicken your pace the more they
flash. You wish you had a lighter gun and less
ammunition in your pockets, and soon call for the
canteen of water in the wagon. By the time you
have emptied it the birds are as far away as ever,
and the whole hunt has to be begun anew. But
you overtake them again, and one that lingers too
long to look at you goes whirling over at forty
yards with a quick shot. From a shower of
feathers you conclude he is dead, but also learn
he was tough enough to flutter out of your reach
in a pile of spiny cactus. And by the time you
are sure of this the rest are out of reach again,
skipping gayly over rocks, with nodding plumes,
and making great speed for the top of the ridge.
The greater the size of the flock the faster they
seem to go, and you may suddenly be paralyzed
with the thought that out of thousands of birds
you may not get enough to scent the frying-pan
enough for Tenderheart, who is now showing
lively interest in the matter. By the time you
scramble out of breath to the top of the ridge,

The Ruffed Grouse 403

nothing is in sight, and about the time you are
through wondering where they went you see dark
lines twisting here and there through the cactus
and brush of the next slope, while away on the
sides some blue lines rise buzzing out of shot. A
grand surprise for one who went so hopefully to
the fray. Yet if you will keep on until you learn
to manage them, you can get enough to satisfy
any one and have the quickest and finest work
with the gun you ever imagined, while Tender-
heart will want a gun even more than you do.

THE RUFFED GROUSE

The red ruffed grouse, as he is called, is the
xame in general size and shape as the brown
ruffed grouse of the eastern woods, but is dis-
tinctly darker with a reddish cast in the brown.
Its habits of breeding and living are about the
same, yet with an abundance of food, milder
winters than the eastern bird has to endure, and
apparently far fewer enemies, it is not as plenty
on the very best grounds as the eastern grouse
is in many places. And this is the case where
it is not shot, trapped, or hunted in any way, and
where hawks, owls, coyotes, foxes, wildcats, and
other marauders are very rare.

The ruffed grouse is not found in southern or
central California, though all the conditions of
his happiest existence seem to abound there in

404 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

the mountains. He begins to appear far in the
North, becomes more plenty in Oregon, and con-
tinues on from there up the coast into Alaska, it
is said. I have found him most plenty in the
Cascade Range, and much more so than in the
Coast Range; though in the latter there is far more
feed in many places with absolutely no disturb-
ance from man. And even in the Cascades he is
most abundant on the eastern slope, where the
chain breaks away in short, steep ridges with
deep, rocky gulches between, well filled with a
tangle of vines and shrubbery. On the western
slope, where the range falls away so gently that
the last thirty miles of the road to Crater Lake
seem almost a level, where huckleberries and
other feed abound, and grass is plenty almost
everywhere, the bird is much more rare. Yet he
is here, and where the tamarack springs like the
spears of an ancient host, or the giant hemlock
shuts out the sun, or in the windfalls where the
mighty trunks are piled so high as to make you
hesitate, this grouse often spreads the broad,
banded tail that so easily escapes the outer edge
of the circle of best-aimed shot.

Many of the local hunters will tell you that you
can do nothing with this grouse because “the
brush is too thick.” But who that knows the bird
would have it otherwise? The miles one gladly
tramps in the eastern woods to get even a glimpse

The Ruffed Grouse 405

of its fan fading in the dark rotunda of the forest
would not be travelled for a bird that rose in the
open and made an easy mark. Moreover, a large
bag of anything is, at last, distinctly out of fash-
ion, even on this coast, is being rapidly forbidden
by law, and the laws are being enforced. And
the laws are made by those who best know what
makes a day’s sport with the gun.

And here he is full of his old tricks with some
new ones adapted to the new conditions. And
all are so natural, for he has had no persecution
to make him study the art of escape as the quail
has. One must not only know how to shoot in
brush, but must also be in good practice, or only
the roar of wings will reward his efforts and he
will watch in vain for the falling of the brown
line whose arrowy flight pierces the distant
thicket with no sign of wavering. Here from a
fallen tree rises a huge skein of upturned roots,
and the bird is behind it before you can turn the
gun uponit. The roots will stop nearly all the
shot, but your only hope rests on a few getting
through, for if you wait to see the whizzing mark
on the other side it will be only when far out of
reach, if in sight at all. For he knows as much
about keeping upturned butts of a tree between
you and him as about doing the same with the
trunk of a tree.

Here is a bunch of tamaracks, so dense that

406 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

scarcely a ray of sunlight filters through to the
carpet of needles beneath. What is the use of
going into such stuff, where you almost have to
crawl, and cannot swing the gun on either side
without striking a tree? Surely a bird would be
out of sight in ten feet of upward rise ex
course, and even in less than that. £6666666
goes an uproarious wing, and before the gun is
halfway to your shoulder, a flash of reddish brown
is out of sight in the tangle of twigs and branches
above. But as you raise the gun you drop on
one knee, and dimly along the iron rib you catch
the line of the game’s disappearance where a
fading streak of fancied brown still glimmers
in imagination’s eye. But to the expert in brush
the eye of fancy is often good enough, and at the
report of the gun a whirl of brown and white with
mottled breast curves downward through the
shower of twigs and drift of circling feathers.

In a heavy mass of huckleberry bushes you hear
another roar of wings, but you know that the
former trick of dropping on one knee will not
now avail, for the lower you drop the more sure
you are to see nothing. And you cannot rise on
tiptoe to see over the brush, for the bird knows
too much to rise above it enough to let you see
him. You have to shoot almost by the sound,
with the slight aid from a faint glimpse, perhaps,
of hazy wings as they cross some small opening.

The Ruffed Grouse 407

In a twinkling your first barrel clears a road
through the brush a little forward of the line of
the bird’s flight. And the second tunnels the
smoke of the first a little farther ahead of where
the wings are still resounding. As the sound
ceases you go with mighty strain of expectation
to look for a feather or two lodged on the top of
the brush. But there is none there, none floating
on the air, and as you realize that the bird sailed
away on that silent, outspread wing that so closely
imitates the flight of an arrow, you feel a mild resig-
nation steal over you, somewhat akin to gladness
that you have found something as smart as you are.

Even in the remotest wilds he is the same wary
bird, wary by nature more than by education.
Nowhere in the East does he know better how to
hide and let you pass him than among the little
dwarf huckleberries that gleam in scarlet on the
slope of the Cascades. And where the crimson of
the wild cherries and the golden light of the wild
plum illumine the dark thicket he springs with that
obstreperous wing whose music is but the more
enchanting for being too quickly gone. And how
could any of his race forget that old family trick
of dodging behind a tree about the instant you are
ready to pull the trigger, and then keeping in line
with it until well out of shot? Nor has he forgotten
that you will look for him again in the spot where
he alights, and he will run off on one side, where

408 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

he can laugh at you for a while and then amuse
you with the hubbub of his resounding wing where
your best-aimed shot will never reach it.

Though plentiful nowhere on the coast, the red
ruffed grouse is found throughout as large a range
as the dusky grouse. High up in the tumbling
hills, where new pentstemons in carmine and pink
nod over crystal streams that foam from the heads
of the higher gulches, he steals out from the deep,
dark ranks of the spruce to take a look at the outer
world. And still higher in the rugged mountains,
where the last little blue lily gives up the struggle
for life in the cold wet bog among the dwarf pines,
he may shake the sunshine from his roaring wing
and whizz down the glen at your approach. But
the best hunting is lower down, where the chin-
quapin begins to tower into the stately tree it often
becomes in Oregon, and where the golden green
of the madrono makes such happy hght against
the sombre masses of the red fir. In autumn the
bird may descend to the thickets of willow and
alder that line the streams in the little valleys, or
to the fringes of scrub oak and laurel that line the
edges of the lower hills. Here one may get open
shooting as he curls around on the outside of the
line of brush, or in the black oaks and firs along
the base of the hills may get some shooting out of
trees well worthy of the name. I do not mean the
miserable murder of shooting one off a limb with

The Ruffed Grouse 409

a shotgun while it sits craning its neck at a dog
barking below, or even the respectable business
of shooting at the head of one with the rifle. The
latter involves some hunting, for few things are
harder to see than a ruffed grouse perfectly still
ina tree. And to hit the small head with a single
ball is about as hard as any rifle-shooting if the
trees are of much height. But with the shotgun
to hit one flying from a tree is one of the shots to
boast of, and you must never be too elated with
one or two good shots. How to make the bird fly
if too high to scare out with stick or stone, is a
matter of detail too long for the limits of this article,
but if you throw anything at him, be sure and get
your hand in position on the gun again before it
reaches him.

Bb66666 goes the bird with a rush that sur-
passes the starting of any other of earth’s crea-
tures, and at the report of the first barrel, on goes
the game as if feathered with the lightning’s rays.
Bang goes the second barrel as quickly as you can
shift your finger to the next trigger, but the gay
rover vanishes where the arms of the fir intertwine
above, and not a feather drifts down from its whiz-
zing line of brown and white around which the
rapid wings seem but a reddish haze tinged with
gray. You shot behind, of course, and the next
time will be sure to hold far enough ahead.
66666666 goes another, with a downward curve

410 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

you did not notice before, and do not notice now
until it is too late. Bang goes the first barrel, but
like a shaft of light the bird goes on, with the shot
hissing just over his back. Bang goes the second
barrel, with the shot both too high and _ behind,
while the brown line glides out of sight among
the trunks as swiftly and easily as the meteor
among the stars of night.

THE DUSKY GROUSE

The largest ground bird of the Pacific Coast
is the dusky grouse. It varies in size from a
pinnated grouse of medium size to a sharp-tailed
grouse of the largest. Its prevailing color is dark
brown, shading to black, threaded with wavy lines
of gray of somewhat bluish tinge. Underneath
it runs into white dashed with brown and black,
more or less finely mottled, especially about the
neck and throat. According to Dr. Coues it is
the same as the dusky or blue grouse of the
Rocky Mountains, “a large, cumbrous bird, usu-
ally displaying stolidity or indifference to the
presence of man, taking to trees when disturbed,
and very easily slaughtered.”

This description is a mistake as applied to the
grouse of this coast. It is large and also cum-
brous in flight compared with the ruffed grouse,
and generally alights in trees when disturbed.
But here it is anything but stolid or indifferent

The Dusky Grouse AI

to the presence of man, and is easily slaughtered
only by those who know how to do it. The
proper way to hunt it is with the small rifle, and
then it is often one of the most puzzling of all
birds to shoot. But even with the shotgun it is
no easy victim, except under the same conditions
that the wildest ruffed grouse of the eastern
woods sometimes is. To many of our most ardent
sportsmen it is best known by an_ occasional
glimpse of brown fading among distant tree-
trunks, or by the flutter of clumsy wings among
the undergrowth. But those same wings carry
it out of sight far too rapidly for the tyro, and
when among the masses of foliage in the big trees
even the sharpest eyes have all they can do to see
it, while to shoot it artistically with the rifle needs
all the keenness of eye and steadiness of hand the
best expert can command. For these reasons it
is considered fine game by even the experts of
this coast, and no one who hunts it much ever
calls it a fool. With the single exception of the
ruffed grouse, it is by far the finest flavored of all
the game-birds of the Pacific Coast.

The dusky grouse is not found in what is
called southern California, though a few may be
found in the higher ranges of Ventura and Santa
Barbara counties. It is only where the Sierra
Nevada swings around to join the Coast Range
at Tehichipi that it begins to appear, though in

412 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

the more southern hills there is an abundance
of the tall pines, deeply shaded glens, secluded
thickets, and fern-clad swales that it most loves.
In the high Sierra, where the silence of the woods
is really oppressive at times, there is no more
welcome sound than the wing of this grouse as
it wheels into sight from some raspberry patch,
scuds away over the carpet of pine needles, or
bursts from the tangled vines that robe some rocky
dell. On open ground it makes about the same
mark as the pinnated grouse when full grown, but
before it has the strong wing of late autumn. It
makes few twists or curves; but, on much of the
ground where it is found, it can vanish among
the colonnades of great trunks in manner almost
as ravishing as that of the ruffed grouse. And
even where the timber is smaller, as among the
dense tamaracks, it is no easy matter to turn the
gun upon the large target before it is out of sight
among the serried trunks. Nor is its rise so close
as to make very easy shooting. In the timber it
will be oftener over twenty yards than under, and
very rarely near enough to allow any trifling in
getting the gun ready. The courtesy we used to
extend to a tenderfoot friend in giving him first
shot at the pinnated grouse, with a comparative
certainty of securing it after he had missed with
both barrels, would generally result in a short
larder with this grouse.

The Dusky Grouse 413

But there is an exception to this among grouse
feeding in long grass early in the season, before
the young are very strong of wing. In little open
parks among heavy timber they may sometimes
be found out in the grass, acting somewhat like
pinnated grouse on stubble in early fall. In one
of some thirty acres lying hidden among the
towering ranks of Douglas fir that robe the
Coast Range of southwestern Oregon, I once
found them so plenty that in about an hour a
companion bagged seventeen, all in single shots
and rising in the open. As there was but one
shotgun in the party, I played dog, dropping flat
to the ground when one rose. So many of them
lay almost as close as pinnated grouse that I have
no doubt we could have tripled the bag with a
good dog. Their flight was almost exactly like
that of the pinnated, and with a dog there would
have been little difference between that and ordi-
nary summer prairie shooting. Such is by no
means the rule however, and how to get good and
certain shooting on this grouse is a problem not
easily solved. Many do not attempt it, but rely on
shooting with the rifle such as may fly up along
the trail when travelling the great forests, or use
them as a diversion from deer-hunting, or fishing,
when it is not necessary to go far from camp.
This grouse lays a dozen or fifteen eggs, and, like
the young of the pinnated and ruffed grouse, the

414. Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

little chicks know how to hide in the smallest
cover. The old one, instead of flying away, flut-
ters into a tree near at hand where she walks
about on a limb and inspects you with a touching
krrrvrvrvrvrrrrryv-uk-uk. Where they have never
been disturbed, as in the wilder parts of Oregon,
they allow you to come very near when doing
this. Otherwise I can hardly see how it can be
called a very tame bird, although it will vary in
different places the same as the mountain-quail.
Nor have I found it plenty enough to cloy any
one who quickly tires of anything too easily done.
During three weeks spent in the wildest part of
the Coast Range of Oregon, in 1896, all the time
beyond the last sight or sound of man or any of
his works, I saw many every day, but nowhere
were they as abundant and tame as in the little
meadow where we got the seventeen. And I doubt
if any one could average seventeen a day by any
means, fair or foul, unless where concentrated by
berries. In the Cascades I found it still more
scarce.

Yet the dusky grouse of this coast has nearly
all those qualities that charm so many who care
nothing for the size or quantity of game. In the
rich bottoms where the fir doubles its size, and
the grand Port Orford cedar forms a roof against
which the sun’s brightest rays struggle in vain,
this grouse springs from the shade with a roar of

The Dusky Grouse 41S

wing that in the great silence of the forest seems
like a sound from home. And equally dear as a
companion it seems on the top of the soaring ridge,
where the sweep of the storm has piled a thousand
shattered trunks in ruinous confusion, leaving the
sunlight to play uncheckered upon the scrubby
chinquapin. And often a dozen or more may
burst from where the service-berry still droops
darkly blue in summer’s waning, with a racket
that makes you clutch the rifle as if it were that
bear for which you have so long been looking.
And there are few sights more attractive than
one rising into the few patches of sunshine found
in these dark woods, with its full form in bright
relief against the thicket of salmon berry, black-
berry, and blackcaps, with the large red huckle-
berry shining like fire against the dark background
of the timber.

The best shooting on the dusky grouse is not
with the shotgun, but with the rifle. There is
rarely certainty enough in finding it to make it
a special object of pursuit. In places you may
travel all day without flushing one, and in the
Sierra Nevada I once spent a week in the wildest
portion without seeing one. But when you are out
with the rifle and not afraid of alarming larger
game, there is no finer mark than the head of this
grouse. One standing upright on some huge
limb a hundred feet away and in the dim light

416 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast

of the forest will test your nerves as well as the
accuracy of your favorite rifle in a way no other
game is likely to do. For you must hit it in the
head, or at least in the neck, or you will be ashamed
to bring it into camp. Moreover, if hit in the
body with a large rifle, it will be torn too much;
and if struck with the twenty-two calibre in the
body, it may fly away where you will never find it.
Then, too, when hit in the head, you feel a satis-
faction, as it comes fluttering down, that you can-
not know if you hit it in the body. And you do
not feel at all bad if the bird goes whizzing away
with a feather or two from its neck fluttering
down the breeze.

The best shooting of this kind is on the old
cock grouse when “tooting.” Perched on some
high limb of a big tree he squats so low that he is
very hard to see, especially as he looks more like
a big knot than a bird, and sends forth a hollow
0000p — oo0fp — coop, so far-reaching and so de-
ceptive that it is quite apt to mislead one. To
locate the tree he is on is no easy trick, while
getting your eye upon the game calls for the ut-
most keenness you can develop. There is nothing
in deer or antelope hunting that calls for any finer
use of sight, and by the time you see the bird you
will generally find you have done some very skil-
ful hunting. But you are not yet through.
The sights of the rifle, so bright and clear against

The Dusky Grouse 417

the target or the imaginary game on which you
try them, suddenly become very dim when you
raise them on the head of this old cock. They
were bad enough on other grouse perching lower
and in thinner trees. But now you have to look
harder for the sights than for the game. You
may have discovered this before on deer in the
distant aisles of the forest or on antelope in the
dancing heat of the plain; but it is far worse now,
especially as you often have to hold the rifle
almost vertically, with the sunlight streaming
down the sights. And often the woods are so
dense there is not light enough even if the mark
were large and clear. Then comes that provok-
ing instant when you find yourself pulling the
trigger, knowing it is a little off the centre, and
realizing so well that nothing but the centre can
be relied on. All these things contribute to
make this grouse a bird to gladden the heart of
those who love the woods more for what cannot
be done than for what can, and, though it is a bird
that rarely justifies a special trip for its pursuit
like the quail, it is still a bright enough light in
the forest to be counted a true game-bird.

INDEX

Alaska —
Golden plover, 331.
Ruffed grouse, 404.
Allen’s ptarmigan [Z. /. allenz] 107,

240.

Aleutian Islands, ptarmigan races,
247.

American woodcock [Philohela
minor |—

Boring, 316-319.
Description, 303-321.
Food, “suction theory,” worms,
etc., 306-312.
Making woodcock ground, 318.
Mating, 312-314.
Mud haunts, 305, 309, 316.
Shooting, 304-305, 316, 320-321.
Young, 314-316.
Ammunition, procuring, 31-32.
Arizona, Gambel’s partridge, 395.
Attwater’s prairie-hen [7. a. aét-
water? | 107, 193.

Badger state—ruffed grouse shoot-
ing, 132-138.

Bait, procuring, 311.
Bartramia longicauda, see Bartram’s
sandpiper.

sandpiper [Bartramia
longicauda | —
Description, 325.
Flesh, value as food, 323, 329.
Haunts and range, 323.
Names, 322-323.
Shooting, 326.
Stalking, 328.

Bartram’s

Black-bellied Massena __ partridge,
105.

Black-game importations, 346, 347.

Blue or crested quail, Pacific coast
varieties, 377.

Blue Ridge, ruffed grouse shooting,
I4I.

Bob-white [ C. virginianus] —
Abundance in U.S., 6.
Compared with mountain-quail,

387, 399, 392, 303-
Compared with valley-quail, 378,
382.
Florida type, 1, 4, 85.
Masked Bob-white, 1, 4, 89.
Mating, 8-12.
Packing, 98-99.
Sporting and _ other
5-8.
Texan type, I, 4, 87.
Varieties, 4.
[See adso Quail. ]

Bog — sand-hill crane shooting inci-
dent, 363-366.
Bonaparte, C. L.—turkey charac-

teristics, 264, 265, 266.

unebellus —ruffed grouse,

107, 108.

[ See Ruffed grouse. ]

Bonasa umbellus sabint — Sabine’s
grouse, 107, 143-144.

Bonasa umbellus togata, Canadian
ruffed grouse, 107, 144-
145.

Bonasa umbellus umbelloides — gray
ruffed grouse, 107, 146.

qualities,

Bonasa

419

420

British Columbia —
Ptarmigan-shooting, 243.
Ruffed grouse shooting, 140.

Brush, see Cover.

California —
Dogs, breeding, 385.
Mountain-quail, 388-389.
Partridge, see California par-
tridge.
Valley-quail of California, see that
title.
California partridge [ Lophortyx cali-
JSornicus] 5, 91, 96.
Packing, 98-99.
Sporting qualities, 97.

Callipepla squamata, scaled par-
tridge, 5, 91, 94.
Callipepla squamata castanetgastra

partridge, 5, 91, 96.
Calls —
Gambel’s partridge, 104.
Mountain partridge, 92.
Mountain-quail, 386-387.
Mourning dove, 367.
Quail, 21-24, 50, 51, 75, 90.
Sand-hill crane, 360.
Turkey-calling, 273-277.
Valley-quail of California, 379-
380.
Canachites canadensis — Canada
grouse, 107, 153-155.
Canachites franklini — Franklin’s
grouse, 107, 156.
Canada —
Ptarmigan-shooting, 229-240.
[ See also Ontario, etc. ]
Canada grouse [Canachites can-
adensis| 107, 153-155.
Canadian ruffed grouse [2. x. Zo-
gata] 107, 144-145.
Capercailzie, American rivals, etc.,
346-347.
Cascade Mountains, ruffed grouse,

404, 407.

Index

Cats —

Quail destroyers, 72.
Quail-shooting anecdote, 79.
Centrocercus urophasianus — sage-
grouse, 107, 210,

[ See Sage-grouse. ]
Charadrius dominicus — golden
plover, 330.
[ See Golden plover. ]
Chestnut-bellied scaled partridge
[C. s. castaneigastra] 5,
91, 96.
Chickens, see Prairie-hen.
Chinese pheasants importations, 347-
349.
Coast Range —
Dusky grouse, 413, 414.
Mountain-quail, 391.
Ruffed grouse, 404.
Cold — enemy of the quail, 69-71.
Coline genus, partridge family, 1.
Colinus ridgwayt — Masked Bob-
white, I, 4, 89.
virginianus — bob-white,
ig Gls
[ See Bob-white. ]
Colinus virginianus floridanus —
Florida Bob-white, 1, 4,
85.
Colinus virginianus texanus—Texas
Bob-white, 1, 4, 87.
Colorado —
Gambel’s partridge,
River, 394, 397.
Ptarmigan-shooting, 243.
Columbian sharp-tailed — grouse
[P. p. columbianus] 107,

Colinus

Colorado

194.

Cooper’s hawk — quail destroyer,
71.

Cornfields — quail-shooting, 53-54,
82-83.

Costume for shooting, see Sports-
men.

Coursing turkeys, 269-273.

Index

Cover —
Dusky grouse, 149.
Quail-shooting, 50-54, 61-65.
Ruffed grouse, 109, 110, 128-129.
Ruffed grouse of the Pacific coast,

405-410.

Cranes —
Sand-nill crane, see that title.
Whooping crane, shooting, 353-

359-

Crater Lake, ruffed grouse, 404.

Crested quail, Pacific coast varieties,
377:

Cross-firing, 40.

Crytonyx Montezuma — partridge,
5» 91, 104.

Dendragapus obscurus — dusky
grouse, 107, 147.
[ See Dusky grouse. |
Dendragapus obscurus fuliginosus —
sooty grouse, I07, 152.
Dendragapus obscurus richardsoni —
Richardson’s grouse, 107,
Los
Denny, Judge — shipments of Chinese
pheasants to U.S., 347-
348.
Desert, quail of, see Gambel’s par-
tridge, Pacific coast.
“Doc” — quail-shooting expedition,
73-85.
Dogs —
California, dog breeding, 385.
Chicken-shooting, 172-174.
Llewellyn setters, see that title.
Pointers, see that title.
Quail-shooting, 31-36, 38-40, 44-
46.
Prairie-hen shooting, 172-174.
Scent — quail-shooting, 28-29,
52, 64, 66.
Setters, see that title.
Valley-quail of California, shoot-

ing, 382, 385.

421

Dove, see Mourning dove.
Drumming habit of ruffed grouse,
IIO-II5.
Dusky grouse [Dendragapus o0b-
scurus| 147-152.
Mating, 151-152.
Shooting, 148-151.
Treeing habit, 148, 150, 152.
Young, 151-152.
Dusky grouse, Pacific coast —
Description, 410-415.
Range, 411.
Shooting, 411, 415-417.

Eagle as U.S. emblem, 250-251.
Elliot’s Rio Grande turkey [JZ s.
elliott | 299.
Enemies of upland game —
Cats, see that title.
Grouse, 121.
Hawks, see that zi¢/e.
Owl attack on turkeys, 266-268,
Prairie-hen, 174.
Ptarmigan, 227.
Quail, 69, 88.
Rattlesnake, Texan Bob-white
enemy, 88.
Squirrel, foe of dove, 370-374.
England —

Pheasant-shooting, 350-351.
Sportsmen, British, 351-352.
Esquimaux, ptarmigan enemies, 227.

European game, 345, 346.
Evermann’s ptarmigan [Z,
manni]| 108, 247.

eUer-

Falconers, sport of, 220.

Farmers and their relation to sports-
men, 55-61.

Florida Bob-white [C. wv. flort-
danus | 1, 4, 85.

Florida wild turkey [JZ s. osceola]
298-299.

Fool quail — Massena partridge,
105.

422

Foreign game importations, 345-352.
[ See also Pheasants, etc. |
Franklin’s grouse [C. franklint]
107, 156.

Gallinaceous birds, see mames of
birds.
Gallinze — partridge family, 1.
Gambel’s partridge [Z. gambdeli]
IOI.
Mating, nest, etc., 103.
Running habit, 102.
Gambel’s partridge, Pacific coast —
Compared with valley-quail of
California, 379-380.
Description, 395.
Range, 394-395.
Shooting, 396-403.
Game, see names of birds.
Game laws, evasion of, 175-176.
Gobbler, see Turkey.
“ Golden opportunity,” 334.
Golden plover [ Charadrius domini-
cus | —
Migration, range, etc., 330-331.
Shooting, 331-332.
“ A golden opportunity,” 334.
Goose-shooting, 359, 360.
Gordon setter for quail-shooting, 35.
Gray plover, Bartram’s sandpiper,
323-324-
Gray ruffed grouse [B. uw. wmbel-
loides| 107, 146.
Great Lakes, golden plover range,
331.
Grouse —
Anecdote — eagerness of sports-
men to make the heaviest
bag, 63.
Attwater’s prairie-hen, 193.
Canada grouse, 153-155.
Canadian ruffed grouse, 144-145.
Columbian sharp-tailed grouse,
194.
Dusky grouse, see that ¢idle.

Index

Grouse [continued | —

Flight, 129-130, 132.

Franklin’s grouse, 107, 156.

Genus of grouse family, 107.

Gray ruffed grouse, 107, 146.

Heath-hen, 107, 192.

Lesser prairie-hen, 107, 193.

Migration — encounters with
grouse in town, 126-128.

Oregon grouse, 144.

Pinnated grouse, see chat fille.

Prairie-hen, see that title.

Prairie sharp-tailed grouse, see
that title.

Richardson’s, 153.

Rifle shots, 123-125.

Ruffed grouse, see chat di¢le.

Sabine’s grouse, 107, 143-144.

Sage-grouse, see that title.

Sharp-tailed grouse, see
zitle.

Snow-time, 128-129.

Sooty grouse, 152.

Grus americana — whooping crane,

353-359-

Grus canadensis —sand-hill crane,

that

359:

[ See Sand-hill crane. ]

Guns —

“Match at chickens,” 179-180,
184.

Prairie sharptail, shooting anec-
dote, 200-204.

Quail-shooting, 30-32.

Small rifle — grouse - shooting,
123-125.

Turkey-tracking, 282.

Woodcock-shooting, 321.

Hawks —
Grouse chase, 218-219.
Pictures of hawk sporting, 219-
220.
Quail destroyers, 71.
Uses of, 72.

Index

Heath-hen [ 7. cupido] 107, 192.
Hunting, see Shooting.

Indians —
Grouse enemies, I2I.
Grouse-shooting anecdote, 204-
206.
“Joe ” — ptarmigan-shooting,
229-240, 338.
Ptarmigan enemies, 227.
Trish setter, merits of, 34.

“Joe”—golden plover shooting,

334-344-

Indian — ptarmigan shoot-
ing, 229-240, 338.

“ Joe’ —turkey-tracking, 284-290,

77 oes

338.

“Joss,” setter — quail-shooting, 74-
85.

Lagopus evermanni — Evermann’s
ptarmigan, 108, 247.

Lagopus lagopus alleni— Allen’s

ptarmigan, 107, 240.
Lagopus lagopus —willow-ptarmigan,
1O7022 0.
[See Willow ptarmigan. ]
Lagopus leucurus — white-tailed
ptarmigan, 108, 242.
[ See White-tailed*ptarmigan. ]
Lagopus rupestris — rock-ptarmigan,
107, 241.
Lagopus rupestris atkensis —Tur-
ner’s ptarmigan, 108, 247.
Lagopus rupestris nelsont — Nelson’s
ptarmigan, 108, 247.
Lagopus rupestris reinhardti— Rein-
hardt’s ptarmigan, 107,
241-242.
rupestris
Townsend’s
108, 247.
Lagopus rupestris welcht — Welch’s
ptarmigan, 107, 242.

townsendi —
ptarmigan,

Lagopus

423

Lesser prairie-hen [ 7. paliidicinc-
tus | 107, 193.
Llewellyn setters —
Madge and Joss, 74-85.
Merits of, 34.
Lophortyx californicus, partridge, 5,
91, 96.
[ See California partridge. ]
Lophortyx californicus vallicola,
partridge, 5, 91, 100.
Lophortyx gambeli, partridge, 5, 91,
IOI.
[ See Gambel’s partridge. ]
Louisiana papabotte, 323, 329.

“Madge,” setter — quail-shooting,

74-85.
Manitoba—whooping crane sport,
357:
“Marking down” — quail-shooting,
46.

Marten — Mattawa incident, 124.
Masked Bob-white [C. ridgway2]
I, 4, 89.
Massena partridge [ Crytonyx Monte-
zuma} 5, 91, 104, 105.
“Match at chickens,” 177-192.
Mattawa moose country — marten
shot, 124.
Meleagris gallopavo — Mexican tur-
key, 299.
[See Mexican turkey. ]
Meleagris sylvestris —wild turkey,
248.
[See Wild turkey. ]
Meleagris sylvestris elliott —
Elliot’s Rio Grande tur-
key, 299.
Meleagris sylvestris osceola — Florida
wild turkey, 298-299.
Mexican turkey [Meleagris gallo-
pavo|—
Characteristics, etc., 299-300.
Introduction into Europe, 260,
300-302. j

Ontario [continued | —
Turkey ranges, 249, 251.
Oregon —
Dusky grouse, 414.
Mountain-quail, 389, 391.

424 Index

Michigan, ruffed grouse shooting,
138-139.

Mistassini lake — “A try for ptarmi-
gan,” 229.

Mojave Desert, Gambel’s partridge,
395-

Mongolian pheasant species, 347-349.
Mountain partridge [ Oreortyx pic-
tus| 4-5, 91.
Mountain-quail —
Call, 386-387.
Compared with Bob-white, 387,
399; 392; 393-
Description, 387.
Flesh, value as food, 390.
Range, 388-389.
Shooting, 390-393.
Taming, 389.
Mourning dove [Zenatidura ma-
croura | —
Call, 367.
Description, 367.
Nest, 368.
Range, 367.

Shooting, 369-370.
Squirrel, enemy of dove, 370-
374-

Nelson’s ptarmigan [Z. 7 zelsonz]
108, 247.
Nervous sportsmen, methods of, 41-
42.
Nests —
Gambel’s partridge, 103.
Mourning dove, 368.
Quail, 13.
Ruffed grouse, 115-116. |

Odontophorine — partridges, I, 91.
Ontario —
Golden plover shooting, 332.
Grouse-shooting, 141.
Prairie-hen shooting, 160.
Sand-hill crane shooting, 362.

Pheasants, abundance of, 348.
Ruffed grouse, 404, 408.
Oregon grouse (Sabine’s) 107, 143-
144.
Oreortyx pictus, mountain partridge,
4-5, 91.
Oreortyx pictus confinis, partridge, 5,
91, 94.
Oreortyx pictus plumiferus, par-
tridge, 5, 91, 93.
Owls — night attack on turkeys,
266-268.

Pacific coast —
Gambel’s partridge, Pacific coast,
see that title.
Grouse, see Ruffed grouse, Pacific
coast, azd@ Dusky grouse,
Pacific coast.
Quail, see Mountain-quail and
Valley-quail.
Papabotte, Bartram’s sandpiper, 323,
329.
Partridges —
British, American rivals, 346.
California, 96.
Call of, 92.
Chestnut-bellied scaled partridge,
5, 91, 96.
Gambel’s partridge, see that title.
Genus, I, 9I.
Massena, 5, 9I, 104, 105.
Mountain, 4-5, 9I.
Packing, 98-99.
Plumed, 93.
San Pedro, 5, 91, 94.
Scaled, 5, 91, 94.
Valley, 5, 91, 100.
Pedioecetes phasianellus — shar p-
tailed grouse, 107, 193.

at hall

Index 425

Pedioecetes phasianellus campestris — | Prairie-hen [continued |] —
prairie sharp-tailed grouse, Shooting [continued | —
107, 195. End of the season, 171-172.
[See Prairie sharp-tailed grouse. ] “Match at chickens,” 177-
Pedioecetes phasianellus columbianus 192. A
— Columbian sharp-tailed Strutting —inflated sacs,162-163.
grouse, 107, 194. Trapping, 177.
Pennsylvania, ruffed grouse shooting, Young, 164-165.
141-143. Prairie sharp-tailed grouse [P. #.
Phasianus torquatus — Mongolian campestris] 195-210.
pheasant, 347. Enmity to pinnated grouse al-
Pheasants — leged, 197-198.
British sport, 350-351. Mating, 196.
Characteristics, 348. Sporting qualities — shooting
Illegal quarry, 349. anecdotes, 198-210.
Species imported, 347, 348. Prairies —
Sporting qualities, 349. Fascination of, 170.
Philohela minor — American wood- Fires, cause of, 176-177.
cock, 303. Protection Island, Chinese pheas-
[See American woodcock. } ants, 348.
Pinnated grouse — Ptarmigan —
Dusky grouse shooting compared, Aleutian Island races, 247.
412-413. Allen’s ptarmigan, 107, 240.
Enmity to sharptail alleged, 197- Reinhardt’s ptarmigan, 107, 241-
198. 242.
Plover, see Bartram’s sandpiper and Rock ptarmigan, 107, 241.
golden plover. Shooting —“a try for ptarmi-
Plumed partridge [ 0. 2. plumiferus | gan,” 229-240.
5) 91, 93 Welch’s ptarmigan, 107, 242.
Pointers — White-tailed ptarmigan, see ¢hat
Quail-shooting, 33. title.
Qualities for field work, 172-173. Willow ptarmigan, see that title.
Popples — grouse-shooting, 138.
Prairie-hen — Quail —
Attwater’s prairie-hen, 193. Blue or crested quail varieties on
Lesser prairie-hen, 193. Pacific coast, 377.
Prairie-hen [ 7ympanuchus ameri- Bob-white, see chat title.
canus | 156-192. Call of, 21-24, 50, 51, 75, 90.
Booming sound, 159-163. Description, markings, etc., 20-21,
Enemies of, 174. Desert, quail of, see Gambel’s
Haunts of, 159. partridge, Pacific coast.
Mating season, 162-164. Enemies of, 69, 88.
Qualifications, 157-158. Gambel’s partridge, see that title.
Shooting — Habits and peculiarities — scent,

Dogs for, 172-174. etc,, 26-29,

426 Index

Quail [ continued ] —
Importation of migratory variety,
2-4.
Migration, 24-25.
Mountain-quail, see that title.
Nests, 13.
Pacific coast, see Mountain-quail
and Valley-quail.
Roosting, 26.
Shooting, 30-67.
End of the season, 64.
Methods of good shots, 54.
Scent, 28-29, 52, 64, 66.
Suggestions to novices, 35.
Young quail, 19.
Valley-quail of California, see that
title.
Varieties of, 4-5.
Young —
Characteristics, 16-19.
Rearing, 14-16.
Shooting, 19.

Rallying call, see Calls.

Rasores — partridge family, I.

Rattlesnake, enemy of Texan Bob-
white, 88.

Red grouse, American rivals, 346.

Red River Valley, grouse shooting,
139-140.

Red ruffed grouse, see Ruffed grouse,
Pacific coast.

Red squirrel — foe of dove, 370-374.

Reinhardt’s ptarmigan [Z. ~ rezn-
haradti| 107, 241-242.

Richardson’s grouse [D. 0. richarad-
sont] 107, 153.

Rifles, see Guns.

Ringneck pheasant species, 347-348.

Rio Grande turkey, Elliot’s, 299.

Rock ptarmigan [Z. vufpestris] 107,
241.

Rocky Mountains —

Dusky grouse, 410.
First view of, 207-208.

Roosting —
Quail, 26.
Ruffed grouse — treeing habit,
118-123.
Ruffed grouse —
Canadian, 107, 144-145.
Gray, 107, 146.
Pacific coast, see Ruffed grouse,
Pacific coast.

Ruffed grouse [ Bonasa umbellus|—
Cover, 109, 110, 128-129.
Description, 108.

Drumming habit, 110-115.

Enemies, 121.

Flight downhill — Pennsylvania

shooting, 141-142.

Mating, I10, 115, 116.

Nest, 115-116.

Pacific coast, see Ruffed grouse,
Pacific coast.

Roosting — treeing habit, 118-

123.

Shooting —
British Columbia, 140.
Difficulties of, 109, 130-132.
Michigan, 138-139.
Ontario, western, I4I.
Pennsylvania, 141-143.
Red River Valley, 139-140.
Stalking, 112, 120-126.
Wing-clapping, III-114.
Wisconsin, 132-138.

Young —
Characteristics and delicacy of,
116-117.
Devotion of hen to, 116-
118.

[ See also Grouse. ]
Ruffed grouse, Pacific coast —
Description, 403.
Range, 404.
Shooting, heavy brush, 405-410.

Sabine’s grouse [ZB. #. sabinz] 107,
143-144.

ee

Index

Sage-grouse [Centrocercus uropha-
szanus| 210-220,

Eggs, 214-216.
Flesh, value as food, 213.
Haunter of sage plains, 211-212.
Hawk chase, 218-219.
Mating, 214.
Sporting qualities, 216-217.

Salt River Valley, Gambel’s par-

tridge, 394.
San Bernardino, Gambel’s partridge,

Sand-hill crane [Grus canadensis | —
Call of, 360.
Shooting, 359-366.
Bog incident, 363-366.
Wounded crane, rapier play,
361-365.
Sandpiper, see Bartram’s sandpiper.
San Pedro Martir, mountain-quail,
388.
San Pedro partridge [O. f. confinzs]
5, 91, 94.
Santa Barbara, dusky grouse, 411.
Santa Monica Mountains, quail, 385.
Scaled partridge [Callipepla squa-
mata| 5, 91, 94.
Season, quail-shooting, end of, 64.
Seed hens — quail-shooting anec-
dote, 48.
Setters —
Gordon setter, 35.
Trish setter, 34.
Llewellyn setters, see that title.
Quail-shooting, 33-35.
Qualities for field work, 172-
173.
Sharp-tailed grouse —
Columbian, 194.
Prairie sharp-tailed grouse, see
that title.
Sharp-tailed grouse [ Pedvoecetes
phasianellus| 107, 193.
Shooting —
Costume, see Sportsmen.

427

Shooting [continued | —
Cross-firing, 40.
Game law evasion, 175-176.
Guns, see that title.
Sportsmen, see that title.
Stalking, see that title.
[ See also names of game.
Sierra Nevada —
Dusky grouse, 412, 415.
Gambel’s partridge, 394, 395.
Skunk-shooting incident, 203-205.
Snake, enemy of Texan Bob-white, 88.
Snow —
Grouse shelters, 128-129.
Ptarmigan plumage coloration,
222-223.
Ptarmigan-shooting, 229-240 ;
snow-storm, 236-240.
Quail-shooting, 66-71.
Snow-shoes of ptarmigan, etc., 223-
224.
Sonora, Gambel’s partridge, 394, 395.
Sooty grouse [D. 0. fuliginosus]
107, 152.
South Dakota, prairie-hen shooting,
166-168.
Sportsmen —
British sportsmen, 351-352.
Costume —
Gambel’s partridge sport, 398.
Quail-shooting, 30.
Eagerness to make the heaviest
bag— grouse anecdote, 63.
Farmers’ relationship to, 55-61.
Nervousness, 41-42.
Outfit, 30.
[ See also Shooting. ]
Squirrel —foe of dove, 370-374.
Stalking —
Bartram’s sandpiper, 328.
Ruffed grouse, 112, 120-126,
Whooping crane, 354.

Tehichipi, dusky grouse range, 411.
Tetraonide — partridge family, I.

428 Index

Tetraonine — grouse family, 107.

Texan Bob-white [C. v. texanus |
154597.

Texas — Bartram’s sandpiper range,
324.

Thickets — quail-shooting, 52.
Townsend’s ptarmigan [Z. 7. fown-
sendi | 108, 247.

Tracking turkeys, 277-293.

Trapping chickens, 177.

Trapping turkeys, 253-255.

Treeing habits of upland game —
Dusky grouse, 148, 150, 152.
Ruffed grouse, 118-123.

Turkey —
Elliot’s Rio Grande _ turkey,
299.
Emblem for U.S., proposal, 250-

250.
Florida wild turkey, 298--299.
Mexican turkey, see that title.
Strutting gobbler, inflated feeling
of, 112.
Wild turkey, see chat title.
Turner’s ptarmigan [Z. ~. atkensis |
108, 247.
Tympanuchus americanus — prairie-
hen, 107, 156.
[See Prairie-hen.]
Tympanuchus americanus attwatert
— Attwater’s prairie-hen,
107, 193.
Tympanuchus cupido —heath-hen,
107, 192.
Tympanuchus pallidicinctus — lesser
prairie-hen, 107, 193.

Upland game, see names of game.
Upland plover, see Bartram’s sand-

piper.

Valley-partridge [Z. ¢. vallicola] 5,
gI, 100.
Valley-quail of California —
Abundance of, 377.

Valley-quail of California [contin-

ued | —
Call, 379-380.
Compared with Bob-white, 378,
382.
Compared with Gambel’s §par-
tridge, 379, 380.
Description, 378.
Fearlessness and vivacity, 378-
379:
Shooting, 380-386.
Banding of quail, 381.
Dog, necessity of, 382, 385.
Expert, sport for, 380, 383-
385.
Flight of quail, 383.
Ventura, dusky grouse, 411.

Welch’s ptarmigan [Z. 7. welchi]
107, 242.
White-tailed buck, shooting, 257.
White-tailed ptarmigan [Z. deucu-
rus] 242-247.
Mating, 245.
Plumage, 245-246.
Shooting — high altitudes, 243-
245.
*‘ White wolf of the north ” — ptar-
migan shooting, 238.
Whooping crane [Grus americana]
shooting, 353-359.
Wild turkey [AZeleagris sylvestris]
248-298.
Coursing, 269-273.
Demand for wild birds, 252-253.
Eggs, hatching under domestic
bird, 259-260.
Florida wild turkey, 298-299.
Mating, 258-259.
Migration, 261-263.
Owl attack on, 266-268.
Range limit —scarcity of birds,
248-252.
Shooting, 256-258, 269-298.
Calling, 269, 273-277.

— es

Index

Wild turkey [continued |] —
Shooting [continued | —
Coursing, 269-273.
Shooting from ambush anec-
dote, 293-298.

Tracking, 277-293.
Swimming anecdotes, 263-266.
Trapping, 253-255.

Young, delicacy of, 261.

Willow ptarmigan [ Zagopus lagopus]

221-228.

Enemies of, 227.

Flesh, value as food, 222.

Mating, 225-226.

Moulting, 228.

Plumage coloration, changing,
222-223, 228.

Refuge under snowdrifts, 224.

Shooting —“ A try for ptarmi-
gan,” 229-240.

Snow-shoes, 223-224.

Trails, 233-234.

Young, devotion of parents to, 226.

429
Wilson, A.—swimming turkey,
263-264.
Wing-clapping habit of grouse, I11-
114.
Wisconsin —

Prairie-hen shooting, 168-169.
Ruffed grouse shooting, 132-138.
Woodcock —
American woodcock,
title.
European, 345.
Worms —
Food of American woodcock,
306-312.
Rising to surface of ground,
311-312.

see that

Young of game birds, see names of
birds.

Zenaidura macroura — mourning
dove, 367.
[See Mourning dove. ]

F. G

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With many illustrations by Cart Runcius and others,

GUNS, AMMUNITION, AND TACKLE

By A. W. MONEY, HORACE KEPHART, W. E. CARLIN, A. L. A. HIMMEL-
WRIGHT, and J. HARRINGTON KEENE

In preparation for early issue

THE BEAR FAMILY
By DR. C. HART MERRIAM. With illustrations by Cart Runaius and others,

COUGAR, WILD CAT, WOLF, AND FOX

RHE; MACMILLAN COMPANY

66 Fifth Avenue, New York

THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN’S
LIBRARY

Edited by CASPAR WHITNEY

Crown 8vo Cloth $2.00 net

SECOND SERIES

THE SPORTING DOG
By JOSEPH A. GRAHAM. With many illustrations from photographs.

AMERICAN YACHTING

By W. P. STEPHENS. With many illustrations by E. A. ScHELL and Cartton T,
CHAPMAN.

THE TROTTING AND THE PACING HORSE

By HAMILTON BUSBEY. With many illustrations from photographs.

LAWN TENNIS AND LACROSSE

By J. PARMLY PARET and WILLIAM HARVEY MADDREN. With many illus-
trations from photographs.

PHOTOGRAPHY FOR THE SPORTSMAN
NATURALIST

By L. W. BROWNELL. With numerous illustrations from photographs.

IN PREPARATION

The American Race Horse, the Running Horse
Rowing and Track Athletics

Skating, Hockey, and Kite Sailing

Baseball and Football

Riding and Driving

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

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