IN THE VALLEY OF ELK RIVER 21 



Using his 22-calibre pistol in a most business-like 

 way Mr. Phillips proceeded to " pop " down the more 

 distant birds, in rotation. At each shot I expected that 

 my bird would either protest, or take wing; but it did 

 neither. It calmly sat there, sodden in stupidity; it 

 looked about in wonder, and waited until the hunters 

 came up, all ready to add it to the bag. But some one 

 interposed with a suggestion that the bag was already 

 large enough, which was readily accepted. At last the 

 bird was fairly driven to flight. With a loud whir of 

 wings it disappeared in the forest, and I presume it is 

 yet in that jungle, breeding fool-hens still more foolish 

 than itself. 



With this strange bird, the pendulum seems to have 

 swung the wrong way, and it will hardly survive 

 through a sufficient number of generations to acquire 

 the doctrine of self-preservation. It is a phenomenon. 

 Charlie Smith tells this story of our genial friend, 

 Mr. G. N. Monro, of Pittsburg, who has hunted in 

 this region: 



Two years ago a party very much like ours was pass- 

 ing through that same jack pine jungle. Mr. Monro 

 and Mack Norboe were ahead, and as usual, some fool- 

 hens were scared up. One alighted in a tree near the 

 tenderfoot, who very naturally became fired with a desire 

 to possess it. 



"Stop, Mack, stop!" said Mr. Monro. "Get my 

 shot-gun out of the wagon, quickly." 



" What d'ye want it for? " asked Mack in his sepul- 

 chral voice. 



