The Valley Quail 161 



chilocothe hangs in rich green garlands and the little 

 mounds are overrun with chlorizanthe, every portion 

 of this winter garden having its charm, its scheme of 

 colour and beauty. It is difficult to find the objectiona- 

 ble features which are a part of the hunter's or camp- 

 er's life in other parts of the world, though I have heard 

 critics denounce the sunshine as too monotonous, to 

 which covert attack there is perhaps no reply. 



I am free to confess that I have never shot a mount- 

 ain quail, as I always feel that I never could find a 

 satisfying excuse for destroying so beautiful a creature. 



I first saw them on the north slope of a peak about 

 ten miles back of Mount Wilson, in the. very heart 

 of the Sierra Madre. I was lying under the thick 

 branches of a wild lilac, resting after a hard climb, when 

 through a leafy arcade, not one hundred feet away, 

 came five or six mountain quail. I had just left a 

 branch of the stream, and all about were brakes, giant 

 ferns, and forests of the more delicate kinds, with here 

 and there the tall stalk of the mountain tiger lily. A tree 

 that had been thrown over in the long ago and covered 

 with lichens lay half buried in the dense underbrush, 

 and down this highway came the jaunty band, stopping 

 every now and then, and uttering a peculiarly musical 

 note that sounded like do, do, d, d, d ; then coming on 

 until they reached a point hardly thirty feet from me, 

 when they again stopped and eyed me with idle curiosity, 

 then came ten feet nearer. A more dainty creature 

 with its long plumes it would be difficult to imagine. 



