930 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 12, 1909. 
the unknown, the untried that always thrills 
one. There had been not the least excitement 
nor pleasure in shooting the mule deer; merely 
a sense of satisfaction that the camp was to be 
supplied with meat; but now my heart was a 
trip hammer. 
“Quit! quit! quit!” plain enough this time, 
and then a whole drove of beautiful bronze birds 
came into view, the big gobblers strutting 
proudly, the lesser ones, hens and their nearly 
full-grown young, running and darting hither 
and thither after grasshoppers, or nervously 
scratching the ground and leaves. I remained 
motionless, letting them come nearer, gun ex¬ 
tended and ready. I had thought to kill two if 
I got the opportunity, but the apparently im¬ 
mense size of the birds made me reconsider 
that. What could I do with two of them? I 
was getting very nervous, rapidly developing 
that malady called buck fever, to which I had 
been a stranger since my earliest days on the 
plains. I could wait no longer, and aiming at 
what I considered the largest of the drove, 
about forty yards distant, I pulled the trigger of 
the left barrel, and heard the coarse shot slat 
into him. Down he went, flapping his great 
wings and turning summersault after summer¬ 
sault, while his kindred simply vanished into 
thin air, as it were. I did not see them fly or 
run. One instant they were, the next instant 
they were not. 
I jumped from the ledge, ran and picked up 
my bird, smoothed his beautiful plumage, raised 
and lowered him a dozen times, speculating 
upon his weight, which I finally estimated at 
thirty pounds. Then I contentedly, even proud¬ 
ly shouldered him and went home. In my war 
bag was a little pocket scales, companion of 
many a fishing trip. I wish now I had not used 
it, for the bar marked twenty-two instead of 
thirty pounds. Nevertheless, I had a fine, big 
bird, and he was fat from gorging on grass¬ 
hoppers, grapes, acorns and madrone berries. 
My little Dutch oven was useless for cooking 
such a huge creature, so I built an oven of clay 
and stone, and roasted the bird in it after mak¬ 
ing a fine stuffing of bread crumbs and certain 
ingredients I had purchased for just such an 
occasion. Oh! but ’twas a fine feast I sat down 
to the succeeding evening. 
They were pleasant days up there in the 
Sierra Anches, and I lingered there as long as I 
could, until the snows of the last of November 
drove me out. I might have stayed longer, but 
for the protests of Ruminator, who bawled piti¬ 
fully all through the long stormy nights. At 
last I heeded his protests, packed up every¬ 
thing one morning; and by night was again 
down in the desert and perpetual summer land. 
By easy stages we traveled southward through 
a big grassy plain abounding in antelope, past 
the precipitous eastern end of the grim Super¬ 
stition range, and then eastward into the flank 
of it. If all goes well, I shall camp again in the 
Sierra Anches and feast on more of the fat 
turkeys that range there. They are there, hun¬ 
dreds of them, and will be there for our chil¬ 
dren’s children to hunt. They are too shy, too 
wary ever to be exterminated by average 
hunters. 
I have just been talking with the Old- Timer 
about turkeys. He says they are so plentiful 
in parts of Sonora,’ and so tame, that they can 
be killed with clubs—provided the hunter es¬ 
capes being potted by the Yaqui Indians. 
Dr. Hodge’s Quail. 
Boston, Mass., June i .—Editor Forest and 
Streatn: Your recent publication of some quail 
pictures stirs to the point of action the pur¬ 
pose I have long had to send you some photo¬ 
graphs in my possession, which, I am hopeful, 
may interest the brethren of Forest and 
Stream. 
It has been one of my privileges for several 
years to know Dr. Hodge, the biologist of 
Clark University, at Worcester, Mass., and 
from time to time to see something of the very 
remarkable experiments he has been making 
in the domestication of the ruffed grouse and 
quail. His success has been far greater than 
most people would have believed possible and 
such that Dr. Hodge himself feels warrants him 
in the conviction that in ten years from now 
we may count these beautiful birds in the list 
of our domestic fowls. 
Old readers of Forest and Stream will re¬ 
member the faithful and persistent efforts of J. 
B. Battelle—“Jay Beebee”—to rear the ruffed 
grouse in captivity, and of the encouraging 
partial success he achieved. I took a keen in¬ 
terest in his work, and did what little I could 
to help to supply him with birds for his pur¬ 
pose. I was, therefore, prepared to take the 
greatest delight in Dr. Hodge’s more recent 
experiments with ruffed grouse and quail, his 
splendid study of the drumming of the grouse, 
and photographs of the drummer in every phase 
'of his performance, printed for the benefit of 
all in Country Life, his studies of the diseases 
to which grouse and quail are subject, their 
special enemies and other kindred matters. 
The pictures I send should serve to arouse 
pleasant anticipations of full reports of his 
work to be given later on by Dr. Hodge him¬ 
self, but I hope they may do much more than 
that and may stimulate effort in the same direc¬ 
tion on the part of any persons so situated that 
they can undertake it. 
Last season Dr. Hodge raised in captivity two 
broods of quail which were so tame that they 
were presently allowed fullest liberty and would 
not only come home at night, but would come 
at his whistle at any time from the adjoining 
orchard, and would cluster on and about his 
person, and with absolute fearlessness eat from 
his hand. 
I can readily believe Dr. Hodge’s assertion 
that these tiny quail furnished the most de¬ 
lightful and entertaining pets one could pos¬ 
sibly imagine. 
What was their ultimate fate I do not know, 
but I think the picture of the double handful 
of the downy things one week old should in¬ 
duce many persons to attempt the rearing of a 
brood, especially after Dr. Hodge has told us 
—as he will presently be able to do—the very 
best ways of doing it. 
Calling on him one day last winter, in his 
office, he had occasion to step into his labora¬ 
tory and on his return he was followed by a 
tame cock quail, which ran at his heels as 
might a pet dog. To my delight and astonish¬ 
ment bobwhite was no more afraid of me than 
of his master. Tempted by some bits of nut 
meats, he sprang upon my knee and ate from 
my hand, and then perched on my finger, 
allowed himself to be caressed and presently, in 
answer to my chirp and whistle, began a series 
of indescribably charming whistles and chuckles 
and throaty pipings and calls. They were all of 
a distinctly quail-like quality, but many of them 
such as I had never heard from mortal quail, 
in spite of the fact that for years, in my boy¬ 
hood, I had crept on wild quail and watched 
them and listened to them when they were quite 
unconscious of my presence. 
The tame bird actually seemed to want to talk 
and to try his best to communicate a lot of 
quail opinion and sentiment, and no words 
could convey the charm of it. In the midst of 
the colloquy. Dr. Hodge bethought himself of 
his camera and in a moment returned with it 
and “snap-shotted” us as you see. There lacked 
only some means of preserving that delicious 
flow of quail notes, musical and quaint and de¬ 
lightful to me beyond all telling. Emerson 
says: 
“Many haps fall in the field 
Seldom seen by wishful eyes,” 
and doubtless the woods people reserve for 
themselves many minor calls and communica¬ 
tions which would interest us if we could hear 
them. 
I can now easily believe that the father and 
mother quail talk to each other and to their 
children in the way bobwhite expressed himself 
to me on this elect occasion, and all because 
he did not know what it was to have an enemy 
and therefore acted naturally. 
The whole affair seemed to set in strongest 
relief the delight and rewards of the study of 
our feathered friends by the friendly and pa¬ 
cific method as compared with all that may be 
gained by the old-fashioned approach with dog 
and gun. I have experienced the latter to the 
