coreopsis with quaint, three-cleft leaves; thimble weeds with fruit
columns half a finger's length; orange-flowered milkweed, like the
color of an oriole's back, made doubly gay by brilliant butterflies
and beetles. On the sandy bank which makes the background for this
scene of splendor, the New Jersey tea, known better as the red-root,
lifts its feathery white plumes above restful, gray-green leaves. Just
at the fence the prairie willow has a beauty all its own, with a
wealth 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