STALKING THE WILD GRAPE 



That was when I sprang over a 

 stone wall and landed fairly in the mid- 

 dle of a covey of partridges made up of 

 a mother bird and what seemed a small 

 whirlwind of young ones no bigger 

 than my thumb. My plunge startled 

 the mother so that she thundered away 

 through the bushes, a thing that a 

 mother partridge, surprised with her 

 young, will rarely do. At the same 

 moment the young scurried into the 

 air. It was like a gust among a dozen 

 brown leaves, whirling them breast 

 high for a moment and then letting 

 them settle to earth again. You go to 

 pick them up and they surely are brown 

 leaves! It is as if some woodland 

 Merlin had waved his wand. They 

 were young partridges, they are brown 

 leaves. It is as quick as that. 



Yet this was my lucky morning, for 

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