THE PRAIRIE HEN. 197 



oranges. As the breeding-season approaches the males appear, 

 uttering strange cries, puffing out these wattles, ruffling their 

 feathers, and erecting their neck-tufts, as if wishing to appear 

 to the greatest advantage before their mates. They occasion- 

 ally engage in combats with each other, but their encounters 

 are not often of a bloody description. 



They form their nests rudely of grass and leaves, under the 

 shelter of a bush or thick tuft of long grass. The hen lays 

 about fifteen eggs of a brownish- white colour. 



The most remarkable feature in the history of these birds 

 is the way in which they assemble, as winter approaches, in 

 vast numbers, to obtain protection from the biting force of 

 the north-west winds which sweep over the Missouri country, 

 by huddling close together. 



" As evening draws near," says Mr. Webber, who has 

 observed their habits, " they approach the spot they have 

 lixed on, in the usual manner, by short nights, with none of 

 that whirring of wings for which they are noted when sud- 

 denly put up ; but they make ample amends for their previous 

 silence when they arrive. From the pigeon-roost there is a 

 continuous roar, caused by the restless shifting of the birds, 

 and sounds of impatient struggling, which can be distinctly 

 heard for several miles. The numbers collected are incal- 

 culably immense, since the space occupied extends sometimes 

 for a mile in length, with a breadth determined by the char- 

 acter of the ground. The noise begins to subside a few hours 

 after dark. The birds have now arranged themselves for the 

 night, nestled as close as they can be wedged, every bird with 

 his breast turned to the quarter in which the wind may be 

 prevailing. This scene is one of the most curious that can bo 

 imagined, especially when we have the moonlight to contrast 



