-the warm little brooding cedars that give the birds shelter as a
hen does her chicks.

When I first began to hunt with Jonathan, he knew so much more than I in
these matters that I always accepted his judgment. If he said, "To-day
they will be in the swamps," I responded, "To the swamps let us go." But
after a time I came to have opinions of my own, and then the era of
discussion set in.

"To-day," begins Jonathan judicially, "the wind is north, and the birds
will be on the south slopes close to the swamp bottoms to keep warm."

"Now, Jonathan, you know I don't a bit believe in going by the wind. The
partridges don't mind wind, their feathers shed it. What they care about
is the sun, and to-day the sun is hot,--at least," with a shiver, "it
would be if we had feathers on instead of canvas. _I_ believe we shall
find them in the big woods."

I usually advocate the big woods, because I like them best for a tramp.

Jonathan, too well content at the prospect of a day's hunt to mind
contradiction, says genially, "All right; I'll go wherever you say."

Which always reduces me to terms at once. Above all things, I dislike to
make myself answerable for the success or failure of the day. I prefer
irresponsible criticism beforehand--and afterwards. So I say hastily,
"Oh, no, no! Of course you know a great deal more than I do. We'll go
wherever you think best."

"Well, perhaps it _is_ too warm for the swamps to-day. Now, they might
be in the birches."

"Oh, dear! _Don't_ let's go to the birches! The birds can't be there.
They never are."

"I thought we were going to go where I thought best."

"Yes--but only not to the birches. It's all a private myth of yours
about their being there."

"Is it a private myth of mine that you shot those two woodcock in the
birches of the upper farm last year? And how about that big gray
partridge--"

"Well--of course--that was later in the season. I suppose the birds do
eat birch buds when everything else gives out."

And so I criticize, having agreed not to. But it's good for Jonathan; it
makes him careful.

"Well, shall it be the swamp?"

"No; if you really _think_ they're in the birches, we'll go there.
Besides, the swamp seems a little--chilly--to begin with. Wait till
I've seen a bird. Then I shan't mind so."

"Then you do admit it's a cool morning?"

"To paddle in a swamp, yes. The birds don't have to paddle."

We try the birches, and the pretty things whip our faces wit