through
the rich bottom lands in search of food. In these journeys the males
would go ahead, apart from the females, and lead the way. The hens, each
conducting her family in a more or less separate group, came straggling
leisurely along in the rear. As they advanced, they would meet other
flocks, thus swelling their numbers.

After a time they were sure to come to a river--a dreadful thing, for,
like the river of the old song, it was a river _to cross_. Up and down
the banks would stalk the gobblers, stretching their necks out over the
water and making believe to start, as they do when going to roost in the
apple-trees.

All day long, all the next day, all the third day, if the river was
wide, they would strut and cluck along the shore, making up their minds.

The ridiculous creatures have wings; they can fly; but they are afraid!
After all these days, however, the whole flock has mounted the tallest
trees along the bank. One of the gobblers has come forward as leader in
the emergency. Suddenly, from his perch, he utters a single cluck--the
signal for the start,--and every turkey sails into the air. There is a
great flapping--and the terrible river is crossed.

A few weak members fall on the way over, but not to drown. Drawing their
wings close in against their sides, and spreading their round fan-like
tails to the breeze, they strike out as if born to swim, and come
quickly to land.

The tame turkey-hen is notorious for stealing her nest. The wild hen
steals hers--not to plague her owner, of course, as is the common belief
about the domestic turkey, but to get away from the gobbler, who, in
order to prolong the honeymoon, will break the eggs as fast as they are
laid. He has just enough brains to be sentimental, jealous, and
boundlessly fond of himself. His wives, too, are foolish enough to
worship him, until--there is an egg in the nest. That event makes them
wise. They understand this strutting coxcomb, and quietly turning their
backs on him, leave him to parade alone.

There are crows, also, and buzzards from whom the wild turkey hen must
hide the eggs. Nor dare she forget her own danger while sitting, for
there are foxes, owls, and prowling lynxes ready enough to pounce upon
her. On the farm there are still many of these enemies besides the worst
of them all, the farmer himself.

For a nest the wild hen, like the tame turkey of the pasture, scratches
a slight depression in the ground, usually under a thick