Bob Whites, Grouse, etc. 



reserving the buds of the pine and the scales or seeds of its cones 

 for winter fare, when nearly all other food is buried under snow. 

 Heavy snowfalls send the grouse to roost in the evergreens, their 

 dusky plumage, that blends perfectly with the sombre coloring 

 of the pines as they squat on the limbs, making them all but 

 invisible. Only early in the summer, when the young are unable 

 to fly into the branches, do these tree-loving mountaineers roost 

 on the ground. Approach a covey suddenly, and the beautiful, 

 downy, nimble-footed chicks, that are by no means fools, scatter 

 and hide among the bushes and under leaves, while the mother, 

 flying in an opposite direction, alights in a tree, quite as if she 

 had no family to be looked for; so why waste time in the search 

 when she is in evidence ? Moving her head from side to side, and 

 looking at the disturber of her peace with first one eye, then the 

 other, she will remain squatting on the limb just overhead with 

 apparent apathy, or what passes for stupidity, but what may be 

 the most intelligent self-sacrifice for her brood. Molest her, and 

 she flies away very rapidly with a loud cackle of alarm. It is she 

 that forms a depression in the ground, near an old log, in the 

 underbrush, or in the stubble of an open field just as likely, but 

 never far from water, after pressing down some fine grass, pine 

 needles, or leaves to line the rude cradle. A clutch consists of 

 from eight to ten creamy, buff eggs, dotted, spotted, and some- 

 times blotched with brown. Confining herself very closely for 

 three weeks or longer, she at length leads forth a brood in June to 

 call it by clucks and otherwise care for it precisely as the do- 

 mestic hen looks after her chicks. The nesting begins about the 

 middle of May, though dates differ with the severity of the season 

 and the altitude. Only one brood is raised in a year. 



While there is anything like work connected with raising a 

 young family the father absents himself, to rejoin it only when 

 the covey has agreeable society to offer and makes no demands. 

 Yet this is the cock that in the mating season gave himself the 

 airs of a turkey gobbler as he strutted along the mountain road in 

 front of your wagon, tail spread to its fullest, wings dropped 

 until they trailed over the ground — a picture of self-importance. 

 This is the season when he woos his mate with booming thunder 

 on a small scale, which passes for a love song. A small sac of 

 loose, orange-colored skin, surrounded by a white frill of feathers 

 edged with dusky, at either side of the neck, may now be 



269 



