I

Down the wooded slope of Taylor’s Hill the Mother Partridge led her brood; down toward the crystal brook that by some strange whim was called Mud Creek.  Her little ones were one day old but already quick on foot, and she was taking them for the first time to drink.

She walked slowly, crouching low as she went, for the woods were full of enemies.  She was uttering a soft little cluck in her throat, a call to the little balls of mottled down that on their tiny pink legs came toddling after, and peeping softly and plaintively if left even a few inches behind, and seeming so fragile they made the very chickadees look big and coarse.  There were twelve of them, but Mother Grouse watched them all, and she watched every bush and tree and thicket, and the whole woods and the sky itself.  Always for enemies she seemed seeking-friends were too scarce to be looked for-and an enemy she found.  Away across the level beaver meadow was a great brute of a fox.  He was coming their way, and in a few moments would surely wind them or strike their trail.  There was no time to lose.

‘Krrr!  Krrr!’ (Hide!!  Hide!) cried the mother in a low firm voice, and the little bits of things, scarcely bigger than acorns and but a day old, scattered far (a few inches) apart to hide.  One dived under a leaf, another between two roots, a third crawled into a curl of birchbark, a fourth into a hole, and so on, till all were hidden but one who could find no cover, so squatted on a broad yellow chip and lay very flat, and closed his eyes very tight, sure that now he was safe from being seen.  They ceased their frightened peeping and all was still.

Mother Partridge flew straight toward the dreaded beast, alighted fearlessly a few yards to one side of him, and then flung herself on the ground, flopping as though winged and lame-oh, so dreadfully lame-and whining like a distressed puppy.  Was she begging for mercy-mercy from a bloodthirsty, cruel fox?  Oh, dear no!  She was no fool.  One often hears of the cunning of the fox.  Wait and see what a fool he is compared with a mother-partridge.  Elated at the prize so suddenly within his reach, the fox turned with a dash and caught-at least, no, he didn’t quite catch the bird; she flopped by chance just a foot out of reach.  He followed with another jump and would have seized her this time surely, but somehow a sapling came just between, and the partridge dragged herself awkwardly away and under a log, but the great brute snapped his jaws and hounded over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less lame, made another clumsy forward spring and tumbled down a bank, and Reynard, keenly following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly enough, fast as he went and leaped, she still seemed just a trifle faster.  It was most extraordinary.  A winged partridge and he, Reynard, the Swift-foot, had not caught her in five minutes’ racing.  It was really shameful.  But the partridge seemed to gain strength as the fox put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race, racing that was somehow all away from Taylor’s Hill, the bird got unaccountably quite well, and, rising with a derisive whirr, flew off through the woods leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to realize that he had been made a fool of, and, worst of all, he now remembered that this was not the first time he had been served this very trick, though he never knew the reason for it.

Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a great circle and came by a roundabout way back to the little fuzz-balls she had left hidden in the woods.

With a wild bird’s keen memory for places, she went to the very grass-blade she last trod on, and stood for a moment fondly to admire the perfect stillness of her children.  Even at her step not one had stirred, and the little fellow on the chip, not so very badly concealed after all, had not budged, nor did he now; he only closed his eyes a tiny little bit harder, till the mother said: 

‘K-reet!’ (Come, children) and instantly like a fairy story, every hole gave up its little baby-partridge, and the wee fellow on the chip, the biggest of them all really, opened his big-little eyes and ran to the shelter of her broad tail, with a sweet little ‘peep peep’ which an enemy could not have heard three feet away, but which his mother could not have missed thrice as far, and all the other thimblefuls of down joined in, and no doubt thought themselves dreadfully noisy, and were proportionately happy.

The sun was hot now.  There was an open space to cross on the road to the water, and, after a careful lookout for enemies, the mother gathered the little things under the shadow of her spread fantail and kept off all danger of sunstroke until they reached the brier thicket by the stream.

Here a cottontail rabbit leaped out and gave them a great scare.  But the flag of truce he carried behind was enough.  He was an old friend; and among other things the little ones learned that day that Bunny always sails under a flag of truce, and lives up to it too.

And then came the drink, the purest of living water, though silly men had called it Mud Creek.

At first the little fellows didn’t know how to drink, but they copied their mother, and soon learned to drink like her and give thanks after every sip.  There they stood in a row along the edge, twelve little brown and golden balls on twenty-four little pink-toed, in-turned feet, with twelve sweet little golden heads gravely bowing, drinking and giving thanks like their mother.

Then she led them by short stages, keeping the cover, to the far side of the beaver-meadow, where was a great grassy dome.  The mother had made a note of this dome some time before.  It takes a number of such domes to raise a brood of partridges.  For this was an ant’s nest.  The old one stepped on top, looked about a moment, then gave half a dozen vigorous rakes with her daws, The friable ant-hill was broken open, and the earthen galleries scattered in ruins down the slope.  The ants swarmed out and quarreled with each other for lack of a better plan.  Some ran around the hill with vast energy and little purpose, while a few of the more sensible began to carry away fat white eggs.  But the old partridge, coming to the little ones, picked up one of these juicy-looking bags and clucked and dropped it, and picked it up again and again and clucked, then swallowed it.  The young ones stood around, then one little yellow fellow, the one that sat on the chip, picked up an ant-egg, dropped it a few times, then yielding to a sudden impulse, swallowed it, and so had learned to eat.  Within twenty minutes even the runt bad learned, and a merry time they had scrambling after the delicious eggs as their mother broke open more ant-galleries, and sent them and their contents rolling down the bank, till every little partridge had so crammed his little crop that he was positively misshapen and could eat no more.

Then all went cautiously up the stream, and on a sandy bank, well screened by brambles, they lay for all that afternoon, and learned how pleasant it was to feel the cool powdery dust running between their hot little toes.  With their strong bent for copying, they lay on their sides like their mother and scratched with their tiny feet and flopped with their wings, though they had no wings to flop with, only a little tag among the down on each side, to show where the wings would come.  That night she took them to a dry thicket near by, and there among the crisp, dead leaves that would prevent an enemy’s silent approach on foot, and under the interlacing briers that kept off all foes of the air, she cradled them in their feather-shingled nursery and rejoiced in the fulness of a mother’s joy over the wee cuddling things that peeped in their sleep and snuggled so trustfully against her warm body.

II

The third day the chicks were much stronger on their feet.  They no longer had to go around an acorn; they could even scramble over pine-cones, and on the little tags that marked the places for their wings, were now to be seen blue rows of fat blood-quills.

Their start in life was a good mother, good legs, a few reliable instincts, and a germ of reason.  It was instinct, that is, inherited habit, which taught them to hide at the word from their mother; it was instinct that taught them to follow her, but it was reason which made them keep under the shadow of her tail when the sun was smiting down, and from that day reason entered more and more into their expanding lives.

Next day the blood-quills had sprouted the tips of feathers.  On the next, the feathers were well Out, and a week later the whole family of down-clad babies were strong on the wing.

And yet not all-poor little Runtie had been sickly from the first.  He bore his half-shell on his back for hours after he came out; he ran less and cheeped more than his brothers, and when one evening at the onset of a skunk the mother gave the word ‘Kwit, kwit’ (Fly, fly), Runtie was left behind, and when she gathered her brood on the piney hill he was missing, and they saw him no more.

Meanwhile, their training had gone on.  They knew that the finest grasshoppers abounded in the long grass by the brook; they knew that the currant-bushes dropped fatness in the form of smooth, green worms; they knew that the dome of an ant-hill rising against the distant woods stood for a garner of plenty; they knew that strawberries, though not really insects, were almost as delicious; they knew that the huge danaid butterflies were good, safe game, if they could only catch them, and that a slab of bark dropping from the side of a rotten log was sure to abound in good things of many different kinds; and they had learned, also, that yellow-jackets, mud-wasps, woolly worms, and hundred-leggers were better let alone.

It was now July, the Moon of Berries.  The chicks had grown and flourished amazingly during this last month, and were now so large that in her efforts to cover them the mother was kept standing all night.

They took their daily dust-bath, but of late had changed to another higher on the hill.  It was one in use by many different birds, and at first the mother disliked the Idea of such a second-hand bath.  But the dust was of such a fine, agreeable quality, and the children led the way with such enthusiasm, that she forgot her mistrust.

After a fortnight the little ones began to droop and she herself did not feel very well.  They were always hungry, and though they ate enormously, they one and all grew thinner and thinner.  The mother was the last to be affected.  But when it came, it came as hard on her-a ravenous hunger, a feverish headache, and a wasting weakness.  She never knew the cause.  She could not know that the dust of the much-used dust-bath, that her true instinct taught her to mistrust at first, and now again to shun, was sown with parasitic worms, and that all of the family were infested.

No natural impulse is without a purpose.  The mother-birds knowledge of healing was only to follow natural impulse.  The eager, feverish craving for something, she knew not what, led her to eat, or try, everything that looked eatable and to seek the coolest woods.  And there she found a deadly sumac laden with its poison fruit.

A month ago she would have passed it by, but now she tried the unattractive berries.  The acrid burning juice seemed to answer some strange demand of her body; she ate and ate, and all her family joined in the strange feast of physic.  No human doctor could have hit it better; it proved a biting, drastic purge, the dreadful secret foe was downed, the danger passed.  But not for all-Nature, the old nurse, had come too late for two of them.  The weakest, by inexorable law, dropped out.  Enfeebled by the disease, the remedy was too severe for them.  They drank and drank by the stream, and next morning did not move when the others followed the mother.  Strange vengeance was theirs now, for a skunk, the same that could have told where Runtie went, found and devoured their bodies and died of the poison they had eaten.

Seven little partridges now obeyed the mother’s call.  Their individual characters were early shown and now developed fast.  The weaklings were gone, but there were still a fool and a lazy one.  The mother could not help caring for some more than for others, and her favorite was the biggest, he who once sat on the yellow chip for concealment.  He was not only the biggest, strongest, and handsomest of the brood, but best of all, the most obedient.  His mother’s warning ‘rrrrr’ (danger) did not always keep the others from a risky path or a doubtful food, but obedience seemed natural to him, and he never failed to respond to her soft ‘K-reet’ (Come), and of this obedience he reaped the reward, for his days 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 grownup 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 wings.

Meanwhile, the strange bob-tailed fox came under the tree and yapped and yapped at them.  They were much amused at him and at their mother and brothers, so much that they never noticed a rustling in the bushes till there was a loud Bang! bang! and down fell two bloody, flopping partridges, to be seized and mangled by the yellow cur until the gunner ran from the bushes and rescued the remains.

III

Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the Don, north of Toronto.  His was what Greek philosophy would have demonstrated to be an ideal existence.  He had no wealth, no taxes, no social pretensions, and no property to speak of.  His life was made up of a very little work and a great deal of play, with as much outdoor life as he chose.  He considered himself a true sportsman because he was ‘fond o’ huntin’,’ and ‘took a sight o’ comfort out of seem’ the critters hit the mud, when his gun was fired.  The neighbors called him a squatter, and looked on him merely as an anchored tramp.  He shot and trapped the year round, and varied his game somewhat with the season perforce, but had been heard to remark he could tell the month by the ‘taste o’ the partridges,’ if he didn’t happen to know by the almanac.  This, no doubt, showed keen observation, but was also unfortunate proof of something not so creditable.  The lawful season for murdering partridges began September 15th, but there was nothing surprising in Cuddy’s being out a fortnight ahead of time.  Yet he managed to escape punishment year after year, and even contrived to pose in a newspaper interview as an interesting character.

He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot his birds, which was not easy to do when the leaves were on, and accounted for the brood in the third ravine going so long unharmed; but the near prospect of other gunners finding them now, had stirred him to go after ‘a mess o’ birds.’  He had heard no roar of wings when the mother-bird led off her four survivors, so pocketed the two he had killed and returned to the shanty.

The little grouse thus learned that a dog is not a fox, and must be differently played; and an old lesson was yet more deeply graven-’Obedience is long life.’

The rest of September was passed in keeping quietly out of the way of gunners as well as some old enemies.  They still roosted on the long thin branches of the hardwood trees among the thickest leaves, which protected them from foes in the air; the height saved them from foes on the ground, and left them nothing to fear but coons, whose slow, heavy tread on the timber boughs never failed to give them timely warning.  But the leaves were falling now-every month its foes and its food.  This was nut time, and it was owl time, too.  Barred owls coming down from the north doubled or trebled the owl population.  The nights were getting frosty and the coons less dangerous, so the mother changed the place of roosting to the thickest foliage of a hemlock-tree.

Only one of the brood disregarded the warning ‘Kreet, kreet.’  He stuck to his swinging elm-bough, now nearly naked, and a great yellow-eyed owl bore him off before morning.

Mother and three young ones now were left, but they were as big as she was; indeed one, the eldest, he of the chip, was bigger.  Their ruffs had begun to show.  Just the tips, to tell what they would be like when grown, and not a little proud they were of them.

The ruff is to the partridge what the train is to the peacock-his chief beauty and his pride.  A hen’s ruff is black with a slight green gloss.  A cock’s is much larger and blacker and is glossed with more vivid bottle-green.  Once in a while a partridge is born of unusual size and vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but by a peculiar kind of intensification is of a deep coppery red, iridescent with violet, green, and gold.  Such a bird is sure to-be a wonder to all who know him, and the little one who had squatted on the chip, and had always done what he was told, developed before the Acorn Moon had changed, into all the glory of a gold and copper ruff-for this was Redruff, the famous partridge of the Don Valley.

IV

One day late in the Acorn Moon, that is, about mid-October, as the grouse family were basking with full crops near a great pine log on the sunlit edge of the beaver-meadow, they heard the far-away bang of a gun, and Redruff, acting on some impulse from within, leaped on the log, strutted up and down a couple of times, then, yielding to the elation of the bright, clear, bracing air, he whirred his wings in loud defiance.  Then, giving fuller vent to this expression of vigor, just as a colt frisks to show how well he feels, he whirred yet more loudly, until, unwittingly, he found himself drumming, and tickled with the discovery of his new power, thumped the air again and again till he filled the near woods with the loud tattoo of the fully grown cock-partridge.  His brother and sister heard and looked on with admiration and surprise, so did his mother, but from that time she began to be a little afraid of him.

In early November comes the moon of a weird foe.  By a strange law of nature, not wholly without parallel among mankind, all partridges go crazy in the November moon of their first year.  They become possessed of a mad hankering to get away somewhere,’ it does not matter much where.  And the wisest of them do all sorts of foolish things at this period.  They go drifting, perhaps, at speed over the country by night and are cut in two by wires, or dash into lighthouses, or locomotive headlights.  Daylight finds them in all sorts of absurd places, in buildings, in open marshes, perched on telephone wires in a great city, or even on board of coasting vessels.  The craze seems to be a relic of a bygone habit of migration, and it has at least one good effect, it breaks up the families and prevents the constant intermarrying, which would surely be fatal to their race.  It always takes the young badly their first year, and they may have it again the second fall, for it is very catching; but in the third season it is practically unknown.

Redruff’s mother knew it was coming as soon as she saw the frost grapes blackening, and the maples shedding their crimson and gold.  There was nothing to do but care for their health and keep them in the quietest part of the woods.

The first sign of it came when a flock of wild geese went honking southward overhead.  The young ones had never before seen such long-necked hawks, and were afraid of them.  But seeing that their mother had no fear, they took courage, and watched them with intense interest.  Was it the wild, clanging cry that moved them, or was it solely the inner prompting then come to the surface?  A strange longing to follow took possession of each of the young ones.  They watched those arrowy trumpeters fading away to the south, and sought out higher perches to watch them farther yet, and from that time things were no more the same.  The November Moon was waxing, and when it was full, the November madness came.

The least vigorous of the flock were most affected.  The little family was scattered.  Redruff himself flew on several long erratic night journeys.  The impulse took him southward, but there lay the boundless stretch of Lake Ontario, so he turned again, and the waning of the Mad Moon found him once more in the Mud Creek Glen, but absolutely alone.

V

Food grew scarce as winter wore on.  Redniff clung to the old ravine and the piney sides of Taylor’s Hill, but every month brought its food and its foes.  The Mad Moon brought madness, solitude, and grapes; the Snow Moon came with rosehips; and the Stormy Moon brought browse of birch and silver storms that sheathed the woods in ice, and made it hard to keep one’s perch while pulling off the frozen buds.  Redruff’s beak grew terribly worn with the work, so that even when closed there was still an opening through behind the hook.  But nature had prepared him for the slippery footing; his toes, so slim and trim in September, had sprouted rows of sharp, horny points, and these grew with the growing cold, till the first snow had found him fully equipped with snow-shoes and icecreepers.  The cold weather had driven away most of the hawks and owls, and made it impossible for his four-footed enemies to approach unseen, so that things were nearly balanced.

His flight in search of food had daily led him farther on, till he had discovered and explored the Rosedale Creek, with its banks of silver-birch, and Castle Frank, with its grapes and rowan berries, as well as Chester woods, where amelanchier and Virginia-creeper swung their fruit-bunches, and checkerberries glowed beneath the snow.

He soon found out that for some strange reason men with guns did not go within the high fence of Castle Frank.  So among these scenes he lived his life, learning new places, new foods, and grew wiser and more beautiful every day.

He was quite alone so far as kindred were concerned, but that scarcely seemed a hardship.  Wherever he went he could see the jolly chickadees scrambling merrily about, and he remembered the time when they had seemed such big, important creatures.  They were the most absurdly cheerful things in the woods.  Before the autumn was fairly over they had begun to sing their famous refrain, ‘Spring Soon,’ and kept it up with good heart more or less all through the winter’s direst storms, till at length the waning of the Hunger Moon, our February, seemed really to lend some point to the ditty, and they redoubled their optimistic announcement to the world in an ‘I-told-you-so’ mood.  Soon good support was found, for the sun gained strength and melted the snow from the southern slope of Castle Frank Hill, and exposed great banks of fragrant wintergreen, whose berries were a bounteous feast for Redruff, and, ending the hard work of pulling frozen browse, gave his bill the needed chance to grow into its proper shape again.  Very soon the first bluebird came flying over and warbled as he flew ‘The spring is coming.’  The sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark of the Wakening Moon of March there was a loud ‘Caw, caw,’ and old Silver-spot, the king-crow, came swinging along from the south at the head of his troops and officially announced,

‘The spring has come’

All nature seemed to respond to this, the opening of the birds’ New Year, and yet it was something within that chiefly seemed to move them.  The chickadees went simply wild; they sang their ’Spring now, spring now now-Spring now now,’ so persistently that one wondered how they found time to get a living.

And Redruff felt it thrill him through and through.  He sprang with joyous vigor on a stump and sent rolling down the little valley, again and again, a thundering ‘Thump, thump, thump, thunderrrrrrrrr,’ that wakened dull echoes as it rolled, and voiced his gladness in the coming of the spring.

Away down the valley was Cuddy’s shanty.  He heard the drum-call on the still morning air and ‘reckoned there was a cock patridge to git,’ and came sneaking up the ravine with his gun.  But Redruff skimmed away in silence, nor rested till once more in Mud Creek Glen.  And thcre he mounted the very log where first he had drummed and rolled his loud tattoo again and again, till a small boy who had taken a short cut to the mill through the woods, ran home, badly scared, to tell his mother he was sure the Indians were on the war-path, for he heard their war-drums beating in the glen.

Why does a happy boy holla?  Why does a lonesome youth sigh?  They don’t know any more than Redruff knew why every day now he mounted some dead log and thumped and thundered to the woods; then strutted and admired his gorgeous blazing ruffs as they flashed their jewels in the sunlight, and then thundered out again.  Whence now came the strange wish for someone else to admire the plumes?  And why had such a notion never come till the Pussywillow Moon?

‘Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-rr’rr’

‘Thump, thump, th un der-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr’

he rumbled again and again.

Day after day he sought the favorite log, and a new beauty, a rose-red comb, grew out above each clear, keen eye, and the clumsy snowshoes were wholly shed from his feet.  His ruff grew finer, his eye brighter, and his whole appearance splendid to behold, as he strutted and flashed in the sun.  But-oh! he was so lonesome now.

Yet what could he do but blindly vent his hankering in this daily drum-parade, till on a day early in loveliest May, when the trilliums had fringed his log with silver stars, and he had drummed and longed, then drummed again, his keen ear caught a sound, a gentle footfall in the brush.  He turned to a statue and watched; he knew he had been watched.  Could it be possible?  Yes! there it was-a form-another-a shy little lady grouse, now bashfully seeking to hide.  In a moment he was by her side.  His whole nature swamped by a new feeling-burnt up with thirst-a cooling spring in sight.  And how he spread and flashed his proud array!  How came he to know that that would please?  He puffed his plumes and contrived to stand just right to catch the sun, and he strutted and uttered a low, soft chuckle that must have been as good as the ‘sweet nothings’ of another race, for clearly now her heart was won.  Won, really, days ago, if only he had known.  For full three days she had come at the loud tattoo and coyly admired him from afar, and felt a little piqued that he had not yet found out her, so close at hand.  So it was not quite all mischance, perhaps, that little stamp that caught his ear.  But now she meekly bowed her head with sweet, submissive grace-the desert passed, the parch-burnt wanderer found the spring at last.

Oh, those were bright, glad days in the lovely glen of the unlovely name.  The sun was never so bright, and the piney air was balmier sweet than dreams.  And that great noble bird came daily on his log, sometimes with her and sometimes quite alone, and drummed for very joy of being alive.  But why sometimes alone?  Why not forever with his Brownie bride?  Why should she stay to feast and play with him for hours, then take some stealthy chance to slip away and see him no more for hours or till next day, when his martial music from the log announced him restless for her quick return?  There was a woodland mystery here he could not clear.  Why should her stay with him grow daily less till it was down to minutes, and one day at last she never came at all.  Nor the next, nor the next, and Redruff, wild, careered on lightning wing and drummed on the old log, then away up-stream on another log, and skimmed the hill to another ravine to drum and drum.  But on the fourth day, when he came and loudly called her, as of old, at their earliest tryst, he heard a sound in the bushes, as at first, and there was his missing Brownie bride with ten little peeping partridges following after.

Redruff skimmed to her side, terribly frightening the bright-eyed downlings, and was just a little dashed to find the brood with claims far stronger than his own.  But he soon accepted the change, and thenceforth joined himself to the brood, caring for them as his father never had for him.

VI

Good fathers are rare in the grouse world.  The mother-grouse builds her nest and hatches out her young without help.  She even hides the place of the nest from the father and meets him only at the drum-log and the feeding-ground, or perhaps the dusting-place, which is the club-house of the grouse kind.

When Brownie’s little ones came out they had filled her every thought, even to the forgetting of their splendid father.  But on the third day, when they were strong enough, she had taken them with her at the father’s call.

Some fathers take no interest in their little ones, but Redruff joined at once to help Brownie in the task of rearing the brood.  They had learned to eat and drink just as their father had learned long ago, and could toddle along, with their mother leading the way, while the father ranged near by or followed far behind.

The very next day, as they went from the hill-side down toward the creek in a somewhat drawn-out string, like beads with a big one at each end, a red squirrel, peeping around a pine-trunk, watched the procession of downlings with the Run tie straggling far in the rear.  Redruff, yards behind, preening his feathers on a high log, had escaped the of the squirrel, whose strange perverted thirst for birdling blood was roused at what seemed so fair a chance.  With murderous intent to cut off the hindmost straggler, he made a dash.  Brownie could not have seen him until too late, but Redruff did.  He flew for that red-haired cutthroat; his weapons were his fists, that is, the knob-joints of the wings, and what a blow he could strike!  At the first onset he struck the squirrel square on the end of the nose, his weakest spot, and sent him reeling; he staggered and wriggled into a brush-pile, where he had expected to carry the little grouse, and there lay gasping with red drops trickling down his wicked snout.  The partridges left him lying there, and what became of him they never knew, but he troubled them no more.

The family went on toward the water, but a cow had left deep tracks in the sandy loam, and into one of these fell one of the chicks and peeped in dire distress when he found he could not get out.

This was a fix.  Neither old one seemed to know what to do, but as they trampled vainly round the edge, the sandy bank caved in, and, running down, formed a long slope, up which the young one ran and rejoined his brothers under the broad veranda of their mother’s tail.

Brownie was a bright little mother, of small stature, but keen of wit and sense, and was, night and day, alert to care for her darling chicks.  How proudly she stepped and clucked through the arching woods with her dainty brood behind her; how she strained her little brown tail almost to a half-circle to give them a broader shade, and never flinched at sight of any foe, but held ready to fight or fly, whichever seemed the best for her little ones.

Before the chicks could fly they had a meeting with old Cuddy; though it was June, he was out with his gun.  Up the third ravine he went, and Tike, his dog, ranging ahead, came so dangerously near the Brownie brood that Redruff ran to meet him, and by the old but never failing trick led him on a foolish chase away back down the valley of the Don.

But Cuddy, as it chanced, came right along, straight for the brood, and Brownie, giving the signal to the children, ‘Krrr, krrr’ (Hide, hide), ran to lead the man away just as her mate had led the dog.  Full of a mother’s devoted love, and skilled in the learning of the woods, she ran in silence till quite near, then sprang with a roar of wings right in his face, and tumbling on the leaves she shammed a lameness that for a moment deceived the poacher.  But when she dragged one wing and whined about his feet, then slowly crawled away, he knew just what it meant-that it was all a trick to lead him from her brood, and he struck at her a savage blow; but little Brownie was quick, she avoided the blow and limped behind a sapling, there to beat herself upon the leaves again in sore distress, and seem so lame that Cuddy made another try to strike her down with a stick.  But she moved in time to balk him, and bravely, steadfast still to lead him from her helpless little ones, she flung herself before him and beat her gentle breast upon the ground, and moaned as though begging for mercy.  And Cuddy, failing again to strike her, raised his gun and firing charge enough to kill a bear, he blew poor brave, devoted Brownie into quivering, bloody rags.

This gunner brute knew the young must be hiding near, so looked about to find them.  But no one moved or peeped.  He saw not one, but as he tramped about with heedless, hateful feet, he crossed and crossed again their hiding-ground, and more than one of the silent little sufferers he trampled to death, and neither knew nor cared.

Redruff had taken the yellow brute away off downstream, and now returned to where he left his mate.  The murderer had gone, taking her remains, to be thrown to the dog.  Redruff sought about and found the bloody spot with feathers, Brownie’s feathers, scattered around, and now he knew the meaning of that shot.

Who can tell what his horror and his mourning were?  The outward signs were few, some minutes dumbly gazing at the place with downcast, draggled look, and then a change at the thought of their helpless brood.  Back to the hiding-place he went, and called the well-known ’kreet, kreet.’  Did every grave give up its little inmate at the magic word?  No, barely more than half; six little balls of down unveiled their lustrous eyes, and, rising, ran to meet him, but four feathered little bodies had found their graves indeed.  Redruff called again and again, till he was sure that all who could respond had come, and led them from that dreadful place, far, far away up-stream, where barb-wire fences and bramble thickets were found to offer a less grateful, but more reliable, shelter.

Here the brood grew and were trained by their father just as his mother had trained him; though wider knowledge and experience gave him many advantages.  He knew so well the country round and all the feeding-grounds, and how to meet the ills that harass partridge-life, that the summer passed and not a chick was lost.  They grew and flourished, and when the Gunner Moon arrived they were a fine family of six grown-up grouse with Redruff, splendid in his gleaming copper feathers, at their head.  He had ceased to drum during the summer after the loss of Brownie, but drumming is to the partridge what singing is to the lark; while it is his lovesong, it is also an expression of exuberance born of health, and when the molt was over and September food and weather had renewed his splendid plumes and braced himself up again, his spirits revived, and finding himself one day near the old log he mounted impulsively, and drummed again and again.

From that time he often drummed, while his children sat around, or one who showed his father’s blood would mount some nearby stump or stone, and beat the air in the loud tattoo.

The black grapes and the Mad Moon now came on.  But Redruff’s blood were of a vigorous stock; their robust health meant robust wits, and though they got the craze, it passed within a week, and only three had flown away for good.

Redruff, with his remaining three, was living in the glen when the snow came.  It was light, flaky snow, and as the weather was not very cold, the family squatted for the night under the low, flat boughs of a cedar-tree.  But next day the storm continued, it grew colder, and the drifts piled up all day.  At night, the snow-fall ceased, but the frost grew harder still, so Redruff, leading the family to a birch-tree above a deep drift, dived into the snow, and the others did the same.  Then into the holes the wind blew the loose snow-their pure white bed-clothes, and thus tucked in they slept in comfort, for the snow is a warm wrap, and the air passes through it easily enough for breathing.  Next morning each partridge found a solid wall of ice before him from his frozen breath, but easily turned to one side and rose on the wing at Redruff’s morning ‘Kreet, kreet, kwit,’ (Come children, come children, fly.)

This was the first night for them in a snow-drift, though it was an old story to Redruff, and next night they merrily dived again into bed, and the north wind tucked them in as before.  But a change of weather was brewing.  The night wind veered to the east.  A fall of heavy flakes gave place to sleet, and that to silver rain.

The whole wide world was sheathed in ice, and when the grouse awoke to quit their beds, they found them selves sealed in with a great cruel sheet of edgeless ice.  The deeper snow was still quite soft, and Redruff bored his way to the top, but there the hard, white sheet defied his strength.  Hammer and struggle as he might he could make no impression, and only bruised his wings and head.  His life had been made up of keen joys and dull hardships, with frequent sudden desperate straits, but this seemed the hardest brunt of all, as the slow hours wore on and found him weakening with his struggles, but no nearer to freedom.  He could hear the struggling of his family, too, or sometimes heard them calling to him for help with their long-drawn plaintive ‘p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e, p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e.’

They were hidden from many of their enemies, but not from the pangs of hunger, and when the night came down the weary prisoners, worn out with hunger and useless toil, grew quiet in despair.  At first they had been afraid the fox would come and find them imprisoned there at his mercy, but as the second night went slowly by they no longer cared, and even wished he would come and break the crusted snow, and so give them at least a fighting chance for life.

But when the fox really did come padding over the frozen drift, the deep-laid love of life revived, and they crouched in utter stillness till he passed.  The second day was one of driving storm.  The north wind sent his snow-horses, hissing and careering over the white earth, tossing and curling their white manes and kicking up more snow as they dashed on.  The long, hard grinding of the granular snow seemed to be thinning the snow-crust, for though far from dark below, it kept on growing lighter.  Redruff had pecked and pecked at the under side all day, till his head ached and his bill was wearing blunt, but when the sun went down he seemed as far as ever from escape.  The night passed like the others, except no fox went trotting overhead.  In the morning he renewed his pecking, though now with scarcely any force, and the voices or struggles of the others were no more heard.  As the daylight grew stronger he could see that his long efforts had made a brighter spot above him in the snow, and he continued feebly pecking.  Outside, the storm-horses kept on trampling all day, the crust was really growing thin under their heels, and late that afternoon his bill went through into the open air.  New life came with this gain, and he pecked away, till just before the sun went down he had made a hole that his head, his neck, and his ever-beautiful ruffs could pass.  His great broad shoulders were too large, but he could now strike downward, which gave him fourfold force; the snow-crust crumbled quickly, and in a little while he sprang from his icy prison once more free.

But the young ones?  Redruff flew to the nearest bank, hastily gathered a few red hips to Stay his gnawing hunger, then returned to the prison-drift and clucked and stamped.  He got only one reply, a feeble ‘peek, peete,’ and scratching with his sharp claws on the thinned granular sheet he soon broke through, and Graytail feebly crawled out of the hole.  But that was all; the others, scattered he could not tell where in the drift, made no reply, gave no sign of life, and he was forced to leave them.  When the snow melted in the spring their bodies came to view, skin, bones, and feathers-nothing more.

VII

It was long before Redruff and Graytail fully recovered, but food and rest in plenty are sure cure-alls, and a bright clear day in midwinter had the usual effect of setting the vigorous Redruff to drumming on the log.  Was it the drumming, or the tell-tale tracks of their snow-shoes on the omnipresent snow, that betrayed them to Cuddy?  He came prowling again and again up the ravine, with dog and gun, intent to hunt the partridges down.  They knew him of old, and he was coming now to know them well.  That great copper-ruffed cock was becoming famous up and down the valley.  During the Gunner Moon many a one had tried to end his splendid life, just as a worthless wretch of old sought fame by burning the Ephesian wonder of the world.  But Redruff was deep in woodcraft.  He knew just where to hide, and when to rise on silent wing, and when to squat till overstepped, then rise on thunder wing within a yard to shield himself at once behind some mighty tree-trunk and speed away.

But Cuddy never ceased to follow with his gun that red-ruffed cock; many a long snapshot he tried, but somehow always found a tree, a bank, or some safe shield between, and Redruff lived and throve and drummed.

When the Snow Moon came he moved with Graytail to the Castle Frank woods, where food was plenty as well as grand old trees.  There was in particular, on the east slope among the creeping hemlocks, a splendid pine.  It was six feet through, and its first branches began at the tops of the other trees.  Its top in summer-time was a famous resort for the bluejay and his bride.  Here, far beyond the reach of shot, in warm spring days the jay would sing and dance before his mate, spread his bright blue plumes and warble the sweetest fairyland music, so sweet and soft that few hear it but the one for whom it is meant, and books know nothing at all about it.

This great pine had an especial interest for Redruff, now living near with his remaining young one, but its base, not its far-away crown, concerned him.  All around were low, creeping hemlocks, and among them the partridge-vine and the wintergreen grew, and the sweet black acorns could be scratched from under the snow.  There was no better feeding-ground, for when that insatiable gunner came on them there it was easy to run low among the hemlocks to the great pine, then rise with a derisive whirr behind its bulk, and keeping the huge trunk in line with the deadly gun, skim off in safety.  A dozen times at least the pine had saved them during the lawful murder season, and here it was that Cuddy, knowing their feeding habits, laid a new trap.  Under the bank he sneaked and watched in ambush while an accomplice went around the Sugar Loaf to drive the birds.  He came trampling through the low thicket where Redruff and Graytail were feeding, and long before the gunner was dangerously near Redruff gave a low warning ‘rrrrr’ (danger) and walked quickly toward the great pine in case they had to rise.

Graytail was some distance up the hill, and suddenly caught sight of a new foe close at hand, the yellow cur, coming right on.  Redruff, much farther off, could not see him for the bushes, and Graytail became greatly alarmed.

‘Kwit, kwit’ (Fly, fly), she cried, running down the hill for a start.  ‘Kreet, k-r-r-r’ (This way, hide), cried the cooler Redruff, for he saw that now the man with the gun was getting in range.  He gained the great trunk, and behind it, as he paused a moment to call earnestly to Graytail, ‘This way, this way,’ he heard a slight noise under the bank before him that betrayed the ambush, then there was a terrified cry from Graytail as the dog sprang at her, she rose in air and skimmed behind the shielding trunk, away from the gunner in the open, right into the power of the miserable wretch under the bank.

Whirr, and up she went, a beautiful, sentient, noble being.

Bang, and down she fell-battered and bleeding, to gasp her life out and to lie, mere carrion in the snow.

It was a perilous place for Redruff.  There was no chance for a safe rise, so he squatted low.  The dog came within ten feet of him, and the stranger, coming across to Cuddy, passed at five feet, but he never moved till a chance came to slip behind the great trunk away from both.  Then he safely rose and flew to the lonely glen by Taylor’s Hill.

One by one the deadly cruel gun had stricken his near ones down, till now, once more, he was alone.  The Snow Moon slowly passed with many a narrow escape, and Redruff, now known to be the only survivor of his kind, was relentlessly pursued, and grew wilder every day.

It seemed, at length, a waste of time to follow him with a gun, so when the snow was deepest, and food scarcest, Cuddy hatched a new plot.  Right across the feeding-ground, almost the only good one now in the Stormy Moon, he set a row of snares.  A cottontail rabbit, an old friend, cut several of these with his sharp teeth, but some remained, and Redruff, watching a far-off speck that might turn out a hawk, trod right in one of them, and in an instant was jerked into the air to dangle by one foot.

Have the wild things no moral or legal rights?  What right has man to inflict such long and fearful agony on a fellow-creature, simply because that creature does not speak his language?  All that day, with growing, racking pains, poor Redruff hung and beat his great, strong wings in helpless struggles to be free.  All day, all night, with growing torture, until he only longed for death.  But no one came.  The morning broke, the day wore on, and still he hung there, slowly dying; his very strength a curse.  The second night crawled slowly down, and when, in the dawdling hours of darkness, a great Horned Owl, drawn by the feeble flutter of a dying wing, cut short the pain, the deed was wholly kind.

The wind blew down the valley from the north.  The snow-horses went racing over the wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the marsh toward the lake, white, for they were driven snow, but on them, scattered dark, were riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffs-the famous rainbow ruffs.  And they rode on the winter wind that night, away and away to the south, over the dark and boisterous lake, as they rode in the gloom of his Mad Moon flight, riding and riding on till they were engulfed, the last trace of the last of the Don Valley race.

For now no partridge comes to Castle Frank.  Its wood-birds miss the martial spring salute, and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine drumlog, since unused, has rotted in silence away.