5° Grey Partridge 



while the male flies to arms, and buffets the intruder to the best of 

 his abilit}' with his wings ; and they generally succeed in driving 

 away a much larger and stronger ])ird. 



It must not be supposed that success always attends their efforts, 

 and it is no uncommon thing for one or both parents to lose their lives 

 in defence of their young. One such incident occurs to me. June, 

 1890, was remarkable for a series of very heavy thunderstorms with 

 fine intervals. A pair of birds had led their young from the adjoining 

 warren out on to the open Bentlings bordering the sea, very 

 probably in search of ants' eggs or some other delicacy. The chicks 

 numbered 13, and were about a week old. These Bentlings are 

 sand hills covered with short grass and clumps of the bent grass, 

 but of cover, properly speaking, there is none. On the warren, 

 100 yards or so distant, there was ample shelter for any emergency, 

 and between the Bentlings and the warren was a broad, naked 

 stretch of short wind-swept turf and sand. In the midst of their 

 operations on the Bentlings, and with no warning, a thunderstorm 

 suddenly broke out — one of the very worst storms of that thunder- 

 stormy year. Recognising the danger the parents gathered up 

 their chicks in haste, and essayed to get back to the cover of the 

 warren, the chicks lagging behind, as they ploughed along over the 

 flooded ground. Half way across the open space, the old birds saw 

 the hopelessness of the attempt, and squatted flat on the open 

 stretch, and raising their wings, each parent took five or six chickens 

 under their shelter and stolidly sat on, hoping that the storm might 

 cease, and give them a chance of getting their family into shelter. 



Well, the storm did not cease, or at any rate did not cease in 

 time, and these two birds remained at their post, unable to move 

 without the certainty of losing their young, and there they died. 

 The keeper found them some time later, stiff, and sodden with wet, 

 with their wings half opened. On lifting first one, and then the 

 other bird from the ground, he saw the whole extent of the disaster, 

 the 13 chicks lay dead, huddled together under two dead bodies. 

 He replaced the birds and sent for me, and I saw what I have 

 described. Is it possible to conceive a stronger instance of the 

 parental instinct — if that is the right name — than this ? 



We may now suppose that we have reached the middle of July, 

 and that the youngsters are four or five weeks old : they have lost 

 almost all their down, and replaced it with short, stumpy quills. 

 The tail feathers and the wing-quills are getting well forward, and the 

 chicks themselves have grown to about the size of blackbirds. They 

 are able to take much longer journeys with their parents in quest 

 of food, and are much better able to face any unwelcome change in 

 our variable climate. They are getting too big for the old birds 

 to cover all at night, and some are in consequence left out, but I think 

 they change and change about, and those that are not actually 

 under the parental wing, cuddle up to each other, and get a good 

 deal of warmth in this way. 



