They are very alert; they are great runners, but do not, unless hotly pursued, often take to wing. When they do, they are swift flyers and dart through the narrow openings in the tangled thicket with remarkable celerity. The male bird is proud and rather aristocratic in his bearing, and flourishes on his head a beautiful top-knot. I have bagged quite a number of them, but have nearly always shot them on the run and not on the wing. They are not numerous. Their flesh is delicate.
The California quail was brought into Washington at least fifty years or more ago. Three of us—James Montgomery, Judge Wingard and myself—in the fall of 1872 brought from Pennsylvania sixteen pairs of bob-whites, which were turned loose on Whidby Island. This was, so far as I know, the first and last importation of the bob-white to Washington. When turned loose on Whidby Island, they gave every indication of pleasure in being upon Mother Earth again. They ran about, jumped up in to the air, scratched the earth and wallowed in the dirt, and had to all appearances a play-spell, full of joy. They mixed readily with their California congeres; they have spread over Western Washington, and are quite numerous.
The pheasant, or ruffed grouse, are natives of Washington. They were very abundant in early days, but are fast disappearing. Being a bird easily bagged, and the flesh being of delicate flavor, they are fast vanishing before the advance of the settlements. The game laws may arrest their slaughter and prevent their complete annihilation; but I doubt it. The crab-apple, on which they principally feed, abounded in all the valleys and in the moist and rich uplands. The ground where the crab-apple tree flourished has been cleared and a portion of their food supply has been cut off. The repeating shotgun is also helping to reduce their number; and unless the game-laws are rigorously enforced, these causes will soon sound their doom. Right here I am tempted to state that the crab-apple of this country is entirely different in form and size from the same fruit in the East. Here, it is not round but elongated, and is about as large as a good-sized bean.
The woodcock is not an inhabitant of this State. The rail is rarely seen; but the jacksnipe is very plentiful in the late fall and up to mid-winter, when the great majority of them depart for warmer marshes. They do not breed here. This bird, in its quick and upward bound and its swift zigzag flights, is a recognized test of the sportsman's skill. Snipes are often bagged here, but not in the romantic way. Snipe on hot toast is a breakfast dish fit for a king.
I had a sporting friend—a doctor—with whom I often went snipe-shooting. This doctor was the best snipe-shot I have ever known. His bag was always packed, while mine was comparatively lean. On one of these occasions our trip was to a tide-marsh and island south of Seattle. Early in the hunt we crossed a slough when the tide was out and found the birds very numerous on the new hunting-ground. The doctor brought them down right and left, while I was slowly increasing the fatness of my pouch. The doctor's success and consequent enthusiasm made him oblivious of the flight of time and of the movement of the tide. He had patients to visit, and when the sun was disappearing behind the western clouds and hills, he suddenly remembered his obligations to them. When on our return we came to the slough, we found it full and overflowing; the water was fully eight feet in depth and twenty feet or more in width. There was a good deal of floating debris in the slough, and the doctor, being a very agile man, leaped from log to log and safely made the passage to the other shore. He said to me, "Come on, Judge; you can easily make it." I told him that I had never prided myself on my agility. "Well," he said, "I will make a bridge for you;" and with the use of a pole he gathered the floating logs together, so that in appearance they looked like a safe bridge. But I said to him, "Doctor, I have all the confidence in the world in you as a physician; but you will excuse me,—I have no confidence whatever in you as a bridge-builder." He said with a little impatience, "O, quit your nonsense and come over; I will show you that the bridge is perfectly safe;" so saying, he leaped upon it and disappeared in the water. He soon re-appeared, however; and as he crawled up the slimy bank, the water spouting out of him in every direction, I said: "Doctor, you look very undignified." He answered, "You go to ——," politely called Hades. I went down the slough, thinking he might be slightly out of temper, and found a safe crossing. I rowed him home—issuing an occasional mandate that he should take a certain medicine, of which I carried in my breast-pocket, a bottle for such occasions. The good doctor has gone to his long home. He sleeps in the bosom of his fathers and his God.
Of the duck family the following species are abundant here: the teal, the mallard, widgeon, pintail, canvasback, spoonbill, sawbill and woodduck. The three last-named species breed in this country, but migrate early in the fall. Formerly the mallard and teal bred here in large numbers on the tide flats and on the marshes along the creeks and rivers; but the advancement of the settler and the trapper, and the hunter with his repeating rifle, has driven them from their accustomed love-haunts, to the more secluded fens and marshes of the farther north. Birds as well as humans are sensitive to disturbance in their love-affairs. The canvasback is a late and temporary visitant of our lakes, marshes, and tide flats, on his journey to the south. He remains for a time on that journey, and for a far shorter time on his return north. The impulse of love impels him to the secluded fens and marshes of the northland. The other species visit us in early winter, and are mostly gone by mid-winter. Their stay is very brief on their return in the spring.
In 1869, and prior to that date, brants and wild geese—or honkers—were very plentiful in the Puget Sound basin. The tide flats were their favorite feeding-ground. They have been compelled by the advance of the settlements to abandon them, and in lieu thereof, they have chosen the wheat-fields in Eastern Washington. There has been no seeming diminution in number of either brant or geese—simply a change in their feeding grounds.
The lonely cry of the loon, presaging storm or tempest, is heard from the forest-environed lakes and waters of the Sound.
The swan occasionally drops into our secluded lakes, and there alone, or with his mate, remains, if the environments suit him and food is plenty.
The pigeon is not numerous in Western nor, as I am informed, in Eastern Washington. He is slightly larger and wilder than his congere of the States. He is also of a deeper blue than his Eastern kinsman. He is only semi-gregarious. I have never seen him in large flocks or in great numbers together. He is not hunted much and is not valued as a choice game-bird.