upply. How
admirable the constitution and temper of this brave singer, keeping in
cheery health over so vast and varied a range! Oftentimes, as I wander
through these solemn woods, awe-stricken and silent, I hear the
reassuring voice of this fellow wanderer ringing out, sweet and clear,
"Fear not! fear not!"

The mountain quail (_Oreortyx ricta_) I often meet in my walks--a small
brown partridge with a very long, slender, ornamental crest worn
jauntily like a feather in a boy's cap, giving it a very marked
appearance. This species is considerably larger than the valley quail,
so common on the hot foothills. They seldom alight in trees, but love to
wander in flocks of from five or six to twenty through the ceanothus and
manzanita thickets and over open, dry meadows and rocks of the ridges
where the forest is less dense or wanting, uttering a low clucking sound
to enable them to keep together. When disturbed they rise with a strong
birr of wing-beats, and scatter as if exploded to a distance of a
quarter of a mile or so. After the danger is past they call one another
together with a loud piping note--Nature's beautiful mountain chickens.
I have not yet found their nests. The young of this season are already
hatched and away--new broods of happy wanderers half as large as their
parents. I wonder how they live through the long winters, when the
ground is snow-covered ten feet deep. They must go down towards the
lower edge of the forest, like the deer, though I have not heard of them
there.

The blue, or dusky, grouse is also common here. They like the deepest
and closest fir woods, and when disturbed, burst from the branches of
the trees with a strong, loud whir of wing-beats, and vanish in a
wavering, silent slide, without moving a feather--a stout, beautiful
bird about the size of the prairie chicken of the old west, spending
most of the time in the trees, excepting the breeding season, when it
keeps to the ground. The young are now able to fly. When scattered by
man or dog, they keep still until the danger is supposed to be passed,
then the mother calls them together. The chicks can hear the call a
distance of several hundred yards, though it is not loud. Should the
young be unable to fly, the mother feigns desperate lameness or death to
draw one away, throwing herself at one's feet within two or three yards,
rolling over on her back, kicking and gasping, so as to deceive man or
beast. They are said to stay all the yea