were longest in the land.

August, the Molting Moon, went by; the young ones were now three parts
grown. They knew just enough to think themselves wonderfully wise. When
they were small it was necessary to sleep on the ground so their mother
could shelter them, but now they were too big to need that, and the
mother began to introduce grown-up ways of life. It was time to roost in
the trees. The young weasels, foxes, skunks, and minks were beginning to
run. The ground grew more dangerous each night, so at sundown Mother
Partridge called '_K-reet_' and flew into a thick, low tree.

The little ones followed, except one, an obstinate little fool who
persisted in sleeping on the ground as heretofore. It was all right that
time, but the next night his brothers were awakened by his cries. There
was a slight scuffle, then stillness, broken only by a horrid sound of
crunching bones and a smacking of lips. They peered down into the
terrible darkness below, where the glint of two close-set eyes and a
peculiar musty smell told them that a mink was the killer of their fool
brother.

Six little partridges now sat in a row at night, with their mother in
the middle, though it was not unusual for some little one with cold feet
to perch on her back.

Their education went on, and about this time they were taught
'whirring.' A partridge can rise on the wing silently if it wishes, but
whirring is so important at times that all are taught how and when to
rise on thundering wings. Many ends are gained by the whirr. It warns
all other partridges near that danger is at hand, it unnerves the
gunner, or it fixes the foe's attention on the whirrer, while the others
sneak off in silence, or by squatting, escape notice.

A partridge adage might well be 'foes and food for every moon.'
September came, with seeds and grain in place of berries and ant-eggs,
and gunners in place of skunks and minks.

The partridges knew well what a fox was, but had scarcely seen a dog. A
fox they knew they could easily baffle by taking to a tree, but when in
the Gunner Moon old Cuddy came prowling through the ravine with his
bob-tailed yellow cur, the mother spied the dog and cried out _Kwit!
Kwit_!" (Fly, fly). Two of the brood thought it a pity their mother
should lose her wits so easily over a fox, and were pleased to show
their superior nerve by springing into a tree in spite of her earnestly
repeated '_Kwit! Kwit!_' and her example of speeding away on silent