4°2 Quail and Grouse of the Pacific Coast 



So you think you will go to the thin mesquite 

 that borders the arid plain where the cactus and 

 dragon's blood with the bright green of the pala 

 verde make the birds tarry just long enough for 

 you to come within shot, but not enough to hide 

 them so that you cannot see them. Blue and 

 chestnut soon flash among the burning rocks, and 

 the more you quicken your pace the more they 

 flash. You wish you had a lighter gun and less 

 ammunition in your pockets, and soon call for the 

 canteen of water in the wagon. By the time you 

 have emptied it the birds are as far away as ever, 

 and the whole hunt has to be begun anew. But 

 you overtake them again, and one that lingers too 

 long to look at you goes whirling over at forty 

 yards with a quick shot. From a shower of 

 feathers you conclude he is dead, but also learn 

 he was tough enough to flutter out of your reach 

 in a pile of spiny cactus. And by the time you 

 are sure of this the rest are out of reach again, 

 skipping gayly over rocks, with nodding plumes, 

 and making great speed for the top of the ridge. 

 The greater the size of the flock the faster they 

 seem to go, and you may suddenly be paralyzed 

 with the thought that out of thousands of birds 

 you may not get enough to scent the frying-pan 

 enough for Tenderheart, who is now showing 

 lively interest in the matter. By the time you 

 scramble out of breath to the top of the ridge, 



