THE SNOW PARTRIDGE. 3 



them {pace my old friend Wilson, whose remarks I shall quote 

 later) the reverse of tame. 



In the spring they are usually in pairs, but it is not un- 

 common to find a dozen such in a couple of hours' walk. Later 

 they are in coveys of from seven to thirty, old and young, and 

 by the end of September many of the latter are almost full 

 grown. 



Their flight is rapid and strong, much like that of a Grouse ; and 

 if met with in comparatively unfrequented spots, they often 

 afford superb sport. Out of a good covey, you get at first no 

 doubt only a right and left, and even though somewhat 

 scattered, the whole of the birds rise at the second if not the 

 first shot ; but though they go off at a great pace and sweep 

 down towards the valley for a while, they soon curve upwards 

 again and alight at no great distance from where you flushed them, 

 and at much the same level as before. If it be a smooth bare 

 hill side, near the limits of vegetation — and you do find them 

 in such places — the same process has to be repeated, and the 

 trudge after each shot becomes longer and longer ; but if they 

 alight (then usually much scattered) amongst rocks and stones, 

 where they can squat unseen, you may get half a dozen in single 

 and double shots (the birds often flustering up close to your 

 feet) before the remainder make up their minds to a simulta- 

 neous change of quarters. 



Glorious sport may be enjoyed after the Snow Partridge. 

 Above, snowy domes and peaks glistening sharp-cut against the 

 blue sky ; below, almost wider one's feet, and stretching away 

 for miles, a sea of green forest ; in front, alternate patches of close 

 shaven mossy turf, starred with a few alpine blossoms, and bare 

 slaty slabs, those in the shade still silvered by the morning's 

 frost — all sloping at a frightful angle, and traversed by little 

 silent snow runlets and long streaks of partly discoloured snow, 

 running down tiny gorges. As you halt to reconnoitre and rest 

 a moment, perfect stillness seems to reign around. There are 

 few signs of life ; one little yellow butterfly fluttering here and 

 there ; by the mossy margin of a tiny trickling rill a few 

 delicately-tinted Horned Larks (Otocorys longirostris) and a flock 

 of Snow Chats (Grandala ccelicolor), the males glistening sap- 

 phire-like against the snow as they dart away on powerful wings. 

 From the depths beneath, the lowing of cattle steals upwards, 

 mellowed by the distance and mingled with faint murmurs 

 from the torrents below ; a bee or two pass humming softly ; 

 a stone clatters down over the shale ; the surging murmur 

 of some distant avalanche creeps along the hill side, and then 

 again a stillness as of death pervades the scene. 



Suddenly from the bare rocks in front out rings a loud whis- 

 tle, and then another, and another ; and again all is still. It is 

 not good walking ; and just between you and the whistlers 

 stones and snow keep every now and then coming down, as if 



