Chapter XI 



The Valley Quail 



ONE of the last quail hunts in which I partici- 

 pated led me over the San Rafael Hills, which 

 rise to the west of the head of the San Gabriel 

 Valley. Along the ridges I followed up the coyote trails 

 to the summits, and looked down into a score of little 

 valleys hoping to see a covey or hear the rich " po-ta-toe " 

 rising from the green depths of the chaparral or see the 

 birds in the open, but all to no purpose. As I wandered 

 home in the cool evening I dropped over the edge of 

 the Arroyo Seco, crossed it, and had climbed the 

 opposite side, hardly a rifle shot from my home, when I 

 walked into a large flock of quail ; they were running 

 across the dusty road into a field of dried burr clover, 

 and, once there, stood and looked at me not fifty feet 

 away, while I, returning from my quail hunt, also 

 looked. This is what I saw a flock of little birds, not 

 quite so large as the bob-white, but each bearing jauntily 

 a plume that fell over its bill to the front, giving the 



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