39^ Q//^/7 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 



