406 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 
has made them wary, they will make for the open at 
first flight, and rarely return before next morning. 
Look here! See where they have been dusting in this 
dry loam, just like so many old hens. 
At four o’clock I walk out on the prairie to an old 
haystack, that seemed to be located near the center 
of their flight as they left the corn last evening, and 
lie down to await developments. High overhead a 
flock of wild geese is moving south; travelers, I guess, 
from the height at which they fly, and the silence and 
regularity of their action. Blackbirds in dense flocks 
are sweeping past, with incessant noise of harsh, rasp- 
ing cries. Close by, a miniature whirlwind is sucking 
up the stray heads of buffalo grass and careering with 
them a short distance, where it leaves them awaiting 
the next puff that shall waltz them off again. 
Keeping a sharp lookout in the direction of the corn- 
fields, I presently see a covey of chickens rise. They 
come down well to one side, far out of range, but af- 
fording me a fine opportunity to observe their manner 
of flight. Rising with a burst of strong wing strokes, 
they attain an elevation of from 20 to 30 yards, and 
scale off on extended pinions for long stretches; then 
with a renewal of wing-beats they acquire fresh impe- 
tus. In this manner they alternate, now scaling, now 
flying along, until lost to sight over the prairie. 
Here comes another covey. Now they are close 
upon me. Bang! one—bang! again, as two cross each 
other in flight, and down they come. There are num- 
bers of chickens sailing by, but none venture in my 
