170 



THE OOIOGIST. 



in town drew me from the country- 

 side and I had to take what I could 

 get. 



The nests were very poorly made 

 ,mere platforms of twigs, scarcely bet- 

 ter than those of Mourning Doves, and 

 I could not see anything to prevent 

 the eggs from rolling out in high 

 wind or rain storms. I suppose, how- 

 ever, that the willow trees, growing 

 very close together, as they do here, 

 do not move much with the wind but 

 turn a sort of impenetrable wall to 

 its force. There was no noticeable lin- 

 ing in any of the nests, the eggs rest- 

 ing on the large sticks of the outer 

 nest, through which their pale blue 

 colors could occasionally be seen. 



THE QUAIL TRAP. 



The Quail Trap, June 1, 1905.— Bob 

 White has bobbed up serenely at last 

 in East Woodstock, and in Village 

 Corners. When I was watering my 

 horse below the village on April 24 

 a female flew across the road. She 

 had six or eight broodmates nearby 

 who have been calling for two weeks. 

 These are not the small introduced 

 species from the south and west, but 

 lusty Connecticut-bred birds, two of 

 which would make a meal for an epi- 

 cure. This strong covey has been 

 brought safely through two winters by 

 the intelligent care of Mr. Bradshaw, 

 the village gardener. May 28th I saw 

 another by the roadside near Dudley, 

 Mass., and the same evening for the 

 first time this season, heard a cock 

 whistle on our home farm. I shall in- 

 quire of our trout fishermen here how 

 many they have heard. And this week 

 on our long drive from town straight 

 to the Massachusetts line, inquiry will 

 be made of all the intelligent farmers, 

 so that with my own observations I 

 can record data on Bob White's stand- 

 ing in Eastrn Connecticut today. 

 June is the quail's noisy breeding 



month, and now the ice is broken we 

 shall expect to hear more whistling 

 from survivors of the fittest. 



To see a woodcock simulating death 

 at their feet in the woods on the 12th 

 of May, was the experience of Mr. 

 Justin Holden and his son. In stoop- 

 ing to secure her the flattened snipe 

 limped a few feet away with broken 

 leg and drooping wing. Not led away 

 by these feints, the Holdens picked up 

 for a few minutes the four exquisite 

 bits of down — the cause of the dis- 

 play of maternal solicitude. While 

 they were admiring and fondling the 

 young, the old mother came directly 

 overhead and hovered like a humming- 

 bird before the honey cells of flowers. 

 All novelties in the home bird world 

 have a charm for Mr. Holden and his 

 son. Last season they found a wood- 

 duck's nest in the suburbs of Norwich, 

 and this week they will look after the 

 herons of Hell-gate. 



The ruffed grouse is the wildest of 

 our game birds. Quail will breed in 

 confienement and are even raised on 

 demand in the west and south. Two 

 or three kinds of its cogeners on the 

 Pacific coast are also domesticated. 

 I have seen large coveys of showy 

 mountain partridge in coops at Yuma, 

 Arizona, and near Mt. Hamilton. But 

 all efforts in pheasantries and aviaries 

 to domesticate the grouse have been 

 emphatic failures. Many of us can 

 recall instances of farmer's boys plac- 

 ing sets of "partridge eggs under 

 the old Dominicker," and how we 

 frowned on these ill-advised and fruit- 

 less attempts. But the time has come 

 in this quest when we can no longer 

 say: "I told you so." By modern ap- 

 pliances, by ascertaining the proper 

 chickfood and exercising the greatest 

 possible care, gentleness and patience, 

 the untamable grouse has now been 

 raised in confinement. 



May 29th we visited the only suc- 

 cessful Grouserie in the United States. 



