lth of leaves glossy dark green above and woolly white below.

There's a whine as if someone had suddenly struck a dog and a brownish
bird runs crouching through the grass while little gingery-brown
bodies scatter quickly for their hiding places. It was near here that
the quail had her nest in June and these are her babies. I reach down
and get one, a little bit of a chick scarcely bigger than the end of
my thumb. The mother circles around, quite near, with alarm and
distress until I back away and watch. Then she comes forward, softly
clucking, and soon gathers her chickens under her wings.

Similar behavior has the ruffed grouse which you may still find
occasionally in the deeper woods. Stepping over the fallen tree you
send the little yellow-brown babies scattering, like fluffy golf-balls
rolling for cover. Invariably the old bird utters a cry of pain and
distress, puts her head down low and skulks off through the grass and
ferns while the chicks hasten to hide themselves. Your natural
inclination is to follow the mother, and then she will take very short
flights, alternated with runs in the grass, until she has led you far
from her family. Then a whirr of strong wings and she is gone back to
the cover where she clucks them together. But if you first turn your
attention to the chicks the mother will turn on her trail, stretch out
her long, broad, banded tail into a beautiful fan, ruffle up the
feathers on either side of her neck and come straight towards you.
Often she will stretch her neck and hiss at you like a barn-yard
goose. There is a picture of the ruffed grouse worth while. You will
learn more about the ruffed grouse in an experience like this than you
can find in forty books. If you pause to admire this turkey-gobbler
attitude of the grouse she thinks she has succeeded in attracting your
attention. The tail fan closes and droops, the wings fall, the ruffs
smooth down. With her head close to the ground, she once more attempts
to lead you from her children. If you are heartless enough you may
again hunt for the chicks and back will come the old bird again,
almost to your feet, with feathers all outstretched.

* * * * *

Creamy clusters of the bunch-flower rise from the brink of the brook
and near-by there are the large leaves of the arrow-head, with its
interesting stalk, bearing homely flowers below and interesting
chalices of white and gold above. Shining up through the long