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XTENDING over the Great Plains from western and probably southern Texas northward through Indian Territory to Kansas is said to be the habitation of the Lesser Prairie Hen, though it is not fully known. It inhabits the fertile prairies, seldom frequenting the timbered lands, except during sleety storms, or when the ground is covered with snow. Its flesh is dark and it is not very highly esteemed as a table bird.

The habits of these birds are similar to those of the Prairie Hen. During the early breeding season they feed upon grasshoppers, crickets, and other forms of insect life, but afterwards upon cultivated grains, gleaned from the stubble in autumn and the corn fields in winter. They are also fond of tender buds, berries, and fruits. When flushed, these birds rise from the ground with a less whirring sound than the Ruffed Grouse or Bob White, and their flight is not as swift, but more protracted, and with less apparent effort, flapping and sailing along, often to the distance of a mile or more. In the fall the birds come together, and remain in flocks until the warmth of spring awakes the passions of love; then, in the language of Col. Goss, as with a view to fairness and the survival of the fittest, they select a smooth, open courtship ground, usually called a scratching ground, where the males assemble at the early dawn, to vie with each other in carnage and pompous display, uttering at the same time their love call, a loud, booming noise. As soon as this is heard by the hen birds desirous of mating, they quietly appear, squat upon the ground, apparently indifferent observers, until claimed by victorious rivals, whom they gladly accept, and whose caresses they receive. Audubon states that the vanquished and victors alike leave the grounds to search for the females, but he omits to state that many are present, and mate upon the “scratching grounds.”

The nest of the Prairie Hen is placed on the ground in the thick prairie grass and at the foot of bushes when the earth is barren; a hollow is scratched in the soil, and sparingly lined with grasses and a few feathers. There are from eight to twelve eggs, tawny brown, sometimes with an olive hue and occasionally sprinkled with brown.

During the years 1869 and 1870, while the writer was living in southwestern Kansas, which was then the far west, Prairie Chickens as they were called there, were so numerous that they were rarely used for food by the inhabitants, and as there was then no readily accessible market the birds were slaughtered for wanton sport.

lesser prairie hen.
From col. Chi. Acad. Sciences. Copyrighted by
Nature Study Pub. Co., 1898, Chicago.

THE NEW TENANTS.

By Elanora Kinsley Marble.

The next day Mrs. Jenny retired into the tin pot, and later, when Mr. Wren peeped in, lo! an egg, all spotted with red and brown, lay upon the soft lining of the nest.

“It’s quite the prettiest thing in the world,” proudly said Mr. Wren. “Why, my dear, I don’t believe your cousin, Mrs. John Wren, ever laid one like it. It seems to me those spots upon the shell are very remarkable. I shouldn’t be surprised if the bird hatched from that shell will make a name for himself in bird-land some day, I really shouldn’t.”

“You foolish fellow,” laughed Mrs. Wren, playfully pecking him with her bill, “if you were a Goose your Goslings, in your eyes, would all be Swans. That’s what I heard our landlady say to her husband last night, out on the porch, when he wondered which one of his boys would be president of the United States.”

Mr. Wren chuckled in a truly papa-like manner and pecked her bill in return, then fairly bubbling over with happiness flew to a neighboring limb, and burst into such a merry roundelay, one note tumbling over another in Wren fashion, that every member of the household came out to hear and see.

“There he is,” cried Pierre, as Mrs. Wren left her nest and flew over beside him, “with tail down and head up, singing as though he were mad with joy.”

“Such a rapturous song,” said mamma. “It reminds me of two almost forgotten lines:

‘Brown Wren, from out whose swelling throat
Unstinted joys of music float.’

“How well we are repaid for the litter they made, are we not?”

“And sure, mum,” said Bridget, whose big heart had also been touched by the sweet song, “it’s glad I am, for sure, that I wasn’t afther dispossessin’ your tinents. It’s innocent craythurs they be, God bless ’em, a harmin’ ov no wan. Sthill—”

“Well,” queried her mistress, as Bridget paused.

“Sthill, mum, I do be afther wonderin’ if the tin pot had been a hangin’ under the front porch instead of the back, would ye’s been after takin’ the litter so philosophyky like as ye have, mum, to be sure.”

The mistress looked at Bridget and laughingly shook her head.

“That’s a pretty hard nut to crack, Bridget,” said she. “Under those conditions I am afraid I——” What ever admission she was going to make was cut short by a burst of laughter from the children.

“Look at him, mamma, just look at him,” they cried, pointing to Mr. Wren, who, too happy to keep still had flown to the gable at the extremity of the ridge-pole of the house, and after a gush of song, to express his happiness was jerking himself along the ridge-pole in a truly funny fashion. From thence he flew into the lower branches of a neighboring tree, singing and chattering, and whisking himself in and out of the foliage: then back to the roof again, and from roof to tree.

“I know what makes him so happy,” announced Henry, who, standing upon a chair, had peeped into the nest. “There’s a dear little egg in here. Hurrah for Mrs. Wren!”

“Do not touch it,” commanded mamma, “but each one of us will take a peep in turn.”

Mrs. Wren’s bead-like eyes had taken in the whole proceeding, and with fluttering wings she stood on a shrub level with the porch and gave voice to her motherly anxiety and anger.

“Dee, dee, dee,” she shrilly cried, fluttering her little wings, which in bird language means, “oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do?”

Her cries of distress were heard by Mr. Wren, and with all haste he flew down beside her.

“What is it?” cried he, very nearly out of breath from his late exertions. “Has that rascally Mr. Jay——”

“No, no!” she interrupted, wringing her sharp little toes, “It’s not Mr. Jay this time, Mr. Wren. It’s the family over there, our family, robbing our nest of its one little egg.”

“Pooh! nonsense!” coolly said Mr. Wren, taking one long breath of relief. “Why, my dear, you nearly frighten me to death. You know, or ought to know by this time, that our landlord’s family have been taught not to do such things. Besides you yourself admit them to be exceptionally good children and good children never rob nests. Fie, I’m ashamed of you. Really my heart flew to my bill when I heard your call of distress.”

Mrs. Wren, whose fears were quite allayed by this time, looked at her mate scornfully.

“Oh!”