196 FEATHERED GAME 
youngster with his wing quills still in their blue 
sheaths and never a sign of feathers. Pres- 
ently it scuttled away and hid in a thick clump 
of grass. After a short search the frightened 
little skulker was brought out from his retreat. 
A little gray and white mass of down—as 
“‘gawky’’ a bunch of infantile innocence as I 
have ever seen. Its bill, legs and feet nearly 
as large as the old bird’s, the head almost too 
much for the feeble neck to sustain. Making as 
yet no attempt at flight, it ran with wings out- 
spread and carried just as the old bird carried 
hers, down-curved and drooping, so long even 
at this age that the little adventurer often 
stepped on them, making him perform various 
unexpected acrobatic feats. 
During the time I kept the youngster pris- 
oner the old bird shrieked and whistled and 
tumbled about, dragging first one wing and then 
the other in her attempts to draw my attention 
to herself, coming almost within hand reach and 
then darting into the air, screeching abuse, de- 
fiance, appeal,—the little fellow answering all 
the time with a feeble, chicken-like ‘‘peeping.’’ 
When at length I let my captive go free he 
