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A BI-MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



DEVOTED TO THE STUDY AND PROTECTION OF BIRDS 



Official Organ of The Audubon Societies 



Vol. XXII November— December, 1920 No. 6 



A Partridge Don Quixote 



By HOWARD H. CLEAVES 



Photographs by the Author, Reproduced through Courtesy of New York State 



Conservation Commission 



BILLY is a Don Quixote among Partridges. But instead of engaging 

 in combat with windmills he goes forth to battle with motor tractors. 

 Before news of him reached us he had for months been hurling challenge 

 after challenge at his superior adversary. The 'sector' held by Billy was a 

 certain tract of woodland on the farm of A. H. Armstrong, not far from 

 Schenectady, N. Y. As we neared the farm by automobile on the State Road, 

 it seemed to us that the territory was not what would be pointed out by an 

 experienced hunter as good Grouse-cover. There were potatoes and various 

 grains growing in wide fields separated by fences or narrow strips of trees and 

 shrubs, and here and there were clean young orchards. But back from the road, 

 as we were presently to discover, were many large pieces of uncleared land, and 

 it was in one of these that Billy, the militant Partridge, had made his home. 



Mr. Armstrong led the way to the shed where his sixty horse-power Bates 

 Steel 'Mule' stood on its caterpillar feet, and in a few moments the iron steed 

 backed from its stall amid a cloud of dust and blue exhaust. "Follow along 

 close behind" shouted our host from his swaying seat as he 'stepped on the 

 gas' and started the great 'tank' on its creeping, lurching way down the crooked 

 wood road. The four semi-skeptical guests, including one lady, fell in at the 

 rear like supporting infantry, but we were armed only with cameras and field 

 glasses as the 'caravan' advanced into the country of the 'enemy.' 



"A unique bird walk!" I said to myself, as I thought of the traditional, 

 tip-toe bird student who whispers "shush" to his followers and leads the stealthy 

 pursuit of some timid and fleeting Warbler or Flycatcher. 



The tractor rumbled across a bridge and up a winding grade, over ruts and 

 rocks and through mud holes, the motor throbbing and pulsating loudly or 

 softly as the occasion required. Presently the driver looked back over his 

 shoulder and began speaking to us. We drew up closer and were informed that 



