Perhaps that is why I never saw the 

 old beech partridge drink from the brook. 

 Nature has a fresher draught, of her own 

 distilling, that is more to his tasting. B^eOfBeecft 



Earlier in the season I found another of Pofridj^e 

 his families near the same spot. I was steal- 

 ing along a wood road, when I ran plump 

 upon them, scratching away at an ant hill 

 in a sunny, open spot. There was a wild 

 flurry, as if a whirlwind had struck the ant 

 hill ; but it was only the wind of the mother 

 bird's wings, whirling up the dust to blind 

 my eyes and to hide the scampering retreat 

 of her downy brood. Again her wings beat 

 the ground, sending up a flurry of dead leaves, 

 in the midst of which the little partridges 

 jumped and scurried away, so much like 

 the leaves that no eye could separate them. 

 Then the leaves settled slowly and the brood 

 was gone, as if the ground had swallowed 

 them up; while Mother Grouse went flut- 

 tering along just out of my reach, trailing 

 a wing as if broken, falling prone on the 

 ground, clucking and kwitting and whirling 

 the leaves to draw my attention and bring 



