REEVA UD. UB O Ni BUI es, LN 33 
The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 
By ALFRED M. BAILEY 
Springtime is a busy one in the grouse world, for the males of all 
species carry on their courtship antics for the benefit of the females. 
The dusky grouse sit on elevated perches—high up in the tallest of 
trees and boom away to their hearts’ content, the far-reaching notes 
echoing among the valleys and mountain peaks having a ventriloquistic 
quality which makes the source hard to locate. The ptarmigan males 
find prominent knolls upon the tundra where they cackle their chal- 
lenges to all the world, while the ruffed grouse pick out favorite strut- 
ting logs in the midst of their favorite cover and drum and strut 
for the edification of the female. The grouse of the plains have some- 
what similar habits—the sage hen, prairie chicken and sharp-tails— 
in that the males return year after year to a favorite performing 
ground. When dawn begins to filter over the prairie, the males come 
in groups to go through their antics and while the performances are 
somewhat similar yet they are radically different. The prairie chicken 
can be heard for a long distance even though the booming note is not 
particularly loud, while the prairie sharp-tailed grouse (Pediocetes p. 
campestris) can be heard only a short distance. 
This past spring Mr. F. R. Dickinson, President of the Chicago 
Academy of Sciences, and I were invited by the late Frank Schmidt 
to photograph some birds he was studying near Babcock, Wisconsin. 
He had erected a blind, and had weather conditions been favorable, the 
situation would have been ideal. Unfortunately, a veritable cloud- 
burst descended upon us the first afternoon and the following morning 
a chill breeze nearly paralized us as we awaited in our tar paper blind 
the coming of the sun and the return of the grouse, which we had 
frightened on our arrival. 
The birds came to the strutting grounds before daybreak—a 
dozen in this instance—and they danced until well after sun up. This 
performance is a rapid affair, much more so than the prairie chicken, 
and while the latter is an individualist—carrying on in his own way 
when the female approaches—the sharp-tails dance in unison. Our 
birds were scattered over an area of 1,500 square feet; they inflated 
small purplish pouches on the side of their necks, and made low coo- 
ing notes which were not audible for any distance, but with necks out- 
stretched, wings extended, spread tail erect, and feet stamping. they 
made staccato, machine gun like sounds as they whirled about, facing 
a female. The performance seemed almost incredible—the rapidity 
with which they moved—the noise they made with stamping feet—and 
the perfect timing. They moved in unison, pounding their feet and 
quivering their wings, while one might have counted ten and then, as 
though at a given signal, the performers paused and remained abso- 
lutely motionless—all wings and necks outstretched. Then, again. as 
though by command, the birds started whirring and rat-tat-tating 
