TUR HUNTING 143 



spurs worn by the old cocks assist in this alpine work — 

 and I often watched, through my glasses, these birds 

 running Marathon races up the steeps. They scaled 

 precipices with the celerity of a woodpecker on a tree 

 stem, all the while flirting their tail to display to the 

 best advantage the delicacy of the white ruffed lining. 

 The perpendicular was no bar to these alpinists. 



They are most difficult to shoot. One so rarely gets a 

 fair and square chance — snow-partridge are shy beyond 

 the telhng. Embracing a rock with one arm, trying to 

 get your gun up with the other, the while your feet 

 scratch in loose shale for a wobbling resting-place, gives 

 all the game to the bird, who gets up his fast pace the 

 instant he quits ground, and in a deep curtseying 

 swoop confounds poor oscillating you ! As they rise 

 they emit a querulous whistle, which soon merges into 

 a series of short, shrill, penetrating cries, then, as they 

 light on the high peaks, often mist-wrapped, you hear 

 a musical gurgle like the soft rippling of water falling 

 from a narrow-necked bottle. 



They are hard to see, because their grey plumage 

 blends so harmoniously with the rocks they rest upon, 

 but in flight are most conspicuous. I noticed a most 

 sportive habit of theirs. As a beam of sun struck 

 through the surrounding vapour many partridges flung 

 themselves into the air for a short turn, flirting their 

 feathers the while, a sort of drying process, I imagine, 

 and these were the moments seized upon by us for 

 murderous attempts. Alas ! so often mere attempts, 

 with the rattle of shot on the rocks, and the triumphant 

 gurgle to mock us. If by some lucky chance a bird was 



