Quail and Partridge 127 



When Joe chanced upon his pheasants only 

 one was in sight and drumming. The log 

 was a big white-oak, wind-felled across a little 

 glade walled in with hazel bushes. Joe 

 was herb-gathering looking, in fact, for 

 yellow puccoon root. It was early March and 

 he knew the plant had not peeped above 

 ground, except in the richest, most sheltered, 

 woodsy places. He had left his gun out at 

 the edge of the hazel thicket, and was crawl- 

 ing through it upon hands and knees, or he 

 would never have got within eye-shot of the 

 feathered gladiators. Pheasants are the wari- 

 est of all game birds, running at the crackling 

 of a dead twig, and flying upon the least stir. 

 Negroes believe that they can also smell 

 human beings. Notwithstanding, there are 

 traditions of battling birds seized with the bare 

 hands. 



Joe had no such luck, though he waited 

 breathlessly the event of the duel. He knew 

 almost at once it was to be a duel he did 

 not hear answering drumming, but saw the 

 pheasant on the white-oak log swell till his 

 breast was almost on top, and his ruffed neck 

 lay upon his back. The bird had heard 

 something too fine for the boy's ear. He 

 was not surprised when the second bird 

 whirred out of the woods, like a cannon ball, 

 half-circled as he flew, and settled upon the 



