ALL during the beautiful summer days the little Mother Partridge and her mate, the brave, ruffled cock, and their twelve brown chicks had lived just on the border of a deep wood, not too far back, so that when the little ones began to fly their flight should be easy. It was a fine, safe place for the little partridges, for they could easily run and hide from danger beneath the thick shadowy places of the pines, which towered so far above their lowly nest that only the soft, swishy whispering of their plumy tops could be heard down in the covert. The little ones grew rapidly, and were soon good-sized chicks; and they were very knowing, for the very instant their wise mother uttered her warning “cr-rr-r-r” cry, off they would flutter, looking, in their flight, for all the world like a drove of flying dead leaves; and strain your eyes as you might, after they had taken flight, you could never find where one little partridge had hidden itself. Instinct taught them to select a leaf or object which exactly matched their brown feathers, and then lie quite flat. There they would huddle until their mother gave a reassuring cluck, meaning “danger over,” then out they would come in a little flock, and all this time while they lay hid, the little Father Partridge was never idle, I assure you, but took it upon himself, when danger came near the flock, to tell them just as far away as possible, and try to divert the attention of the enemy to himself in the funniest fashion. He would be so brave, even in the face of great danger, that he would boldly strut forth, all his feathers bristling, and the curious ruffle raised about his neck, and so bluster and strut and make such a ridiculous clamor that the intruder invariably forgot to see where the little chicks hid themselves. Then as soon as Mother Partridge and the chicks were off and away, a swift “whir-r-r,” and before you knew it, Father Partridge had vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up.

The partridges always led their little chicks to the very best feeding grounds. Well they knew where the plump little red partridge berries grew thick in their deep green beds of moss, and also they remembered where in the deep mountain slashes the luscious red raspberries hung in ripe clusters; and sometimes they had to do battle with the screaming blue jays to drive them off, providing they reached the feeding grounds first. Brave as well as gallant was the little cock partridge. Off alone, on fleet wing would he fly upon private expeditions of his own, and when he succeeded in finding good feeding, he would mount upon a great log, or high place, and drum, drum, drum, beating his strong wings against his sides, and filling the forest with loud echoing calls—the call of the partridge for his mate, until she and the little partridges had followed him to the feeding place. Many a time when swift danger came upon them from above, and a cruel hawk swooped low after one of the chicks, then Father Partridge would raise his ruff fiercely and rushing forth, his barred wings and tail flaunted high, he would drum so loudly in the very face of the hawk that it would change its course and decide that it really did not care for a young partridge that day.

Gradually, as the young partridges became stronger and larger, they would venture forth into the woods upon short excursions on their own account, but they invariably came back to the home covert at night, where their mother would hover them beneath her soft brown wings, until they became too old, when they would all huddle together beneath the drooping limbs of a low falling spruce, or fly up into its lower limbs; for sometimes their instinct told them to sleep out of reach of Red-Brush, the fox, who sometimes strolled in the woods, near at hand, after dark. But somehow, in spite of the many warnings of wise little Mother Partridge, and fierce drummings of the father, one by one all but four of the partridge chicks mysteriously disappeared in one way or another, until when autumn came there were but six left of the large partridge family.

But they did not seem to mind that, which is the way in partridge families, and all through the autumn they had the very happiest times together that you possibly can imagine. The mornings were beginning to be keen and frosty, but their brown feather coats were thick and glossy, and they were so very plump from the abundance of good feed to be had, that they never minded the cold; it only made them wilder and livelier. Just as the first twinkling sunbeam filtered its way through the tent-like roof of their covert, then Father Partridge would take his head from beneath his wing; with a flash of his bright, beady eyes he would ruffle his crest, then “whir-r-r,” swiftly his wings would take him off, skimming low over frosted ferns and brakes. Then five other “whir-r-s” would sound, and you knew that the partridge family were awake for the day, and had started off to hunt for their breakfast. Indeed in the partridge family it was meal time all day long in those autumn days, for they did nothing but feast continually, because that is the great festival time of the year for partridges. In the hedges the red choke cherries had turned black and hung in such heavy clusters that their branches trailed low, and the fruit was wild and juicy. The thorn apple trees, with their armor of bayonet-like spikes, were filled with scarlet apples, mellow and rich as a persimmon after the frost has ripened it, while over wayside saplings trailed long vines hung thick with little fox grapes doubly tasty because Jack Frost had nipped them. Then too there were beechnuts rattling down out of their yellowing leaves—all these good things to be had for the taking; no wonder the partridges grew each day a trifle more plump that autumn. Still, unlike the thrifty squirrel family, they were not wise enough to lay aside a hoard of food against hard, bitterly cold winter weather; they just flew about enjoying life. So plump did the young ones become that at last you could not tell them from the old partridges. Then, all of a sudden, just as they were becoming recklessly tame and fearless, something terrifying and unknown came into the forest and drove every little thing which wore fur or feathers quite wild with fright.

“Bang, bang, bang,” it sounded, the awful din, sometimes in the depths of the thick spruce bush, and again in the open, or down in the edge of the slashes; then up would curl an evil-smelling blue vapor, and one time when the terrified partridge family took flight two more of the young ones did not follow their leader to safe covert. Four of them, all that were now left, remained safely hidden in the depths of the deep forest for days, and at last the terrifying bangs were no longer heard, and they finally ventured out into the open once more.

By this time the maples, beeches, and the birch trees had all shed their dense leaves, and chilly winds, wintry and bleak, began to croon and whine through the dense coverts among the thick spruces. There the partridges sought shelter each night, and finally winter set in in good earnest and all the little wild creatures sought for warm, snug quarters. The squirrels huddled down in their cozy nests, all lined with leaves, and filled with a choice assortment of provisions, and old Dame Woodchuck had long ago crept into her burrow, deep down in the brown earth, and closed up her door for the winter; not until Candlemas Day would she venture to even stick her nose out-of-doors again. Still, there were plenty who did not care to idle and sleep all through the cold weather, so there was still plenty of life left in the forest.

After the first deep snow the partridges remained hidden in some deep, warm covert among the thick, sheltering pines, coming forth into the open only when they wished to feed upon chance dried berries which the snow and winds had left clinging to bare branches; but for the most part all the birds which had not gone south kept to the deep woods for shelter.

Now right in the heart of a balsam pine lived a great snowy owl, which had drifted from its kindred down from the far North, and taken up its solitary home close to the partridge covert. The great, wise owl thought herself perfectly safe, no doubt, in such a lofty home; so, a few months before, she had laid two beautiful snowy eggs in her retreat, which in time became two small owlets, with such comical, fuzzy, round faces, and large yellow eyes. The great snowy mother owl loved them as only a mother owl knows how, almost wearing herself out to hunt food for them, both day and night. One day when the great snowy owl came back to the balsam pine she arrived just in time to see a sinuous, brown, fur-coated stranger hastily claw himself down from her nest, and dashing swiftly and angrily at him, she managed to clutch just a tuft of his brown fur. He had slipped away, and her nest was empty; and all night long, far above the spot where the partridges nested, the great snowy owl cried out: “Who-who-wo-wo-wo-o-o,” and from that day she nested alone and began to watch and watch for the reappearance of that hateful, sinuous, brown-coated stranger who had stolen the young owl babies, but she watched in vain.

Fiercely raged the great northern blizzards and sometimes when the partridges ventured forth from their coverts when hard pressed with hunger the heavy winds would seize them and dash them roughly about, so that spent and weary they were often forced to come back to shelter without tasting food for hours. Still, in certain places known to the partridges there were still pine cones a-plenty, and in between the brown husk-like layers of the cones they found little nutty seeds of the pine, while beneath, in sheltered spots which the snow did not cover, they scratched for partridge berries, wintergreen plums, and an occasional beechnut which the squirrels had not found. Searching and keen were the wintry winds, which sometimes stung through their feather coats, so they would huddle close together beneath the shelter of a great log, or where pine branches swept low. One day a great storm raged which lasted for many days, and the giant pines rocked so mightily that none of the wild creatures ventured out as long as it lasted. The partridges huddled closely together upon the ground for warmth, and gradually the snow sifted and filtered its way through the forest until it had finally covered everything, even the partridges, who looked like little mounds of snow. Strangely enough they were warm and comfortable beneath their snow coverlet, for the snow arched over each sleek, brown back, forming a little shelter or hut over them, not unlike those small snow huts which the Laps build; and if you could have peeped beneath, you might have seen four pairs of very bright, alert eyes peeping from a tiny opening in their snow covering; that is, when the partridges were not fast asleep.

When the snowflakes began to come down slower and slower, and almost cease, then many of the wild things began to grow very hungry and ventured forth. A sly old weasel started out first, and soon his lithe, snake-like body was skimming silently through the pathless, silent forest, leaving queer little tracks in the soft snow as he traveled. Once in the deep pines he began to peer about for prey; in and out among the brown underbrush he crept, being careful that no twig should snap beneath him to betray his coming. Nothing seemed to be stirring yet; plainly everything was still asleep. But far up above in the giant pine above him the weasel failed to notice that a certain knot-hole was completely filled by a great, round, snowy face lighted by glittering, angry eyes, of pale yellow. For the great snowy owl had seen the weasel the moment he came into the woods, and recognized him as the enemy who had robbed her of the young owlets. On crept the weasel, feeling rather cross, when suddenly his little red eyes lighted upon four very peculiar tussocks of snow just beside a great log; and could he believe his eyes?—one of the snow bundles moved. Then the weasel knew there must be something hidden there. He stole nearer. He was in great luck; surely there were partridges there asleep in the snow. Instantly he gathered himself for a swift spring, but just as he was about to seize the first partridge, a great, white shadowy form, which might have been a giant snowflake, so silently did it fall, came swooping down upon the weasel from above, and the next instant the strong yellow talons hidden in the snowy feathers were buried in the weasel’s fur, and he was lifted and borne in triumph through the air, twisting and struggling to gain his freedom, but vainly.

Then at a signal the brave leader of the partridges rose, and the other three went “whir, whir, whirring” off into the safe places of the forest.