The Mountain- Qiiail 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 quit-quit-quit-qnit-queee-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 



