came, his call sounding nearer and 

 nearer. At last it was well within range 

 and the hunter cautiously peered from 

 behind his covert, all a tremble with ex- 

 citement, his eyes dancing with ex- 

 pectancy. He gazed into the expectant 

 face of another famous turkey-hunter, 

 peeking from behind a log. Now, no 

 doubt, one of his most cheerful memories 

 is of the joke he had on the other fellow. 



As has been said, the habits of the 

 Wild Turkey are almost identical with 

 those of the domestic turkey. The birds 

 go about in flocks, sometimes in open 

 places, sometimes in deeper forests, 

 feeding on mast and insects. One male 

 is usually found in company with sev- 

 eral females. In the spring the females 

 steal away and make their nests, where 

 they lay from ten to fourteen eggs. 

 They keep the nests hidden from the 

 male who, if he finds them, will proceed 

 to break up house-keeping at once. 



It was practical, unimaginative Ben 

 Franklin, I believe, who proposed the 

 Turkey instead of the eagle as the na- 

 tional emblem, and gave a number of 

 very practical reasons therefor. Indeed, 

 there is a sense in which he is a national 

 bird, as he is the principal factor in the 

 one great feast that is distinctly an 

 American institution, and a feast which 

 means more to us perhaps than any other 

 day of the year, as it means home-com- 

 ing, and the gathering of separated fam- 

 ilies together around the old home table. 



But I think we all have reason to re- 

 joice that Franklin's excellent reasons 

 were not listened to, for take him all in 

 all, outside the enthusiasm of the hunter 

 when the bird has come within range or 

 the expectancy with which the epicure 

 looks forward to a savory dish, there is 

 hardly a bird on earth that can waken 

 less enthusiasm. If you want a good 

 half-hour's amusement, sit down and 

 fancy the Wild Turkey as an emblem of 

 the republic. You will discover the 

 foundation for a rousing comedy. Think 

 of his picture on our coins, and the bills 

 we occasionally see. Imagine the car- 

 toons our European friends would make. 

 Think of the things our and other poets 

 have said of the eao-le. 



Tennyson's magnificent 



He clasps the crag with hooked hands 



Close to the sun in lonely lands, 



and Drake's 



Then from her mansion in the sun 

 She called her eagle-bearer down, 



and the hundreds of other references 

 you can call to mind, and try to substi- 

 tute "Turkey" instead. 



Indeed, outside of the question of eat- 

 ing, and considering questions of char- 

 acter, there are few birds we view with 

 such lack of affection. Other game birds 

 appeal to us. The whistle of the quail 

 makes for home and summer-time and 

 feelings that lie near the hearts of men, 

 and the farmer actually loves them for 

 their cunning, bunty forms. He has 

 touched poets and authors, and Riley 

 speaks of him when he "whistles his 

 name in high delight," and one of the 

 most delicate touches in Irving is a bit 

 of description where the quail calls from 

 the empty stubble-field. The drumming 

 of the pheasant from the wood quickens 

 the pulse and starts the marching of the 

 long, long thoughts of youth. Even 

 among our barnyard fowl bold chanti- 

 cleer has had noble fame from time im- 

 memorial. 



But the Turkey, with his brutal, dis- 

 reputably red face, his inordinate self- 

 esteem and constant strut, his flying into 

 a passion at the sight of a red rag, or 

 even a guying call, annul every feeling 

 of admiration that his brilliant colors 

 and stately form might awaken, and 

 even to those who are not gourmands he 

 looks never so handsome as when nicely 

 browned and hot and smoking, he 

 emerges from the oven where he has 

 received a richly deserved roasting. 



While the Wild Turkey was formerly 

 found as far north as Maine, Ontario 

 and North Dakota, its range is now 

 practically limited to the region from 

 Pennsylvania southward to the Gulf of 

 Mexico and westward to the Great 

 Plains. It nests upon the ground at the 

 base of a bush or tree. The female only 

 cares for the young and, in fact, is de- 

 serted by the male as soon as she de- 

 parts to sit upon the eggs in her hidden 

 nest. H. Walton Clark. 



173 



