4 THE SNOW PARTRIDGE.
preparatory to an avalanche ; you have to mind your feet ; it is
impossible to say which is more slippery, the stones or moss, and
a single false step would shoot you some two or three
thousand feet into the birch trees below ; but the whistle bursts
out, not fifty yards away, with redoubled energy, echoing
harshly amongst the crags. You push on, half sliding, to a little
plateau close to where the whistles sounded ; you scrutinize
intently the purplish grey stones in front; you cough, raise
your gun ; still nothing is to be seen. But the dog's eyes,
as he stands (his chain held by a Pahari) shivering with excitement,
are almost starting from his head ; a look to the man,
and the old smooth-haired, liver-coloured setter (ah ! dear companion
of many, many happy days!) is sneaking forward, almost
like a prowling cat ; but only for a few paces—then he stands
immoveable. Again you wait; a few steps only—and the foothold
may be such that firing would be impossible ; a Pahari
heaves a big stone a few yards in front of the dog's nose ;
presto ! as if by one impulse, in one lump, with the clatter of a
hundred Partridges, up springs a covey ; they rise perpendicularly
about three yards, and your first barrel rakes them, dropping
three ; the second catches the hindermost bird as they sweep
down the hill-side. The first three lie amongst the rocks, the
last fust touches ground five hundred feet beiow. But there
is no time to think of him. Before the echoes of the shots have
died away, a growl, as if of anger at being disturbed, at first
low, but growing louder every second, floats down from the
peaks above ; a rolling cloud, a confused mist of snow, in which
a few black specs are discernable, is coming straight down on
you. You reach the birds, when, with a surging swish and mighty
clatter, down rushes the avalanche, stray fragments of stone
striking, and the skirts of the snow sweeping, even the little
plateau whence you fired. A near thing, but the birds have
been marked down less than a quarter of a mile ahead, a little
higher and in much better ground than that where you found
them ; and sending a man and dog down to recover the bird
below, you push on recklessly over ground that, at other times,
you would cross at a snail's pace, until again the harsh whistle
warns you that the game is at hand. And now, if you have
luck, you will get, within the space of two hundred yards, from
three to six as fine shots, singles and doubles, as ever gladdened
the heart of sportsman ; and even if you cannot follow this
covey up a third time, you may probably, if you are in one
of their head-quarters, find another, and another ; and besides
picking off three or four Snow Cocks with a rifle, and possibly
(because all the firing in the world will not at times prevent
such suddenly cropping up before you) a Tahr or a Burrel, you
may take ten to fifteen brace of these splendid Snow Partridges
down with you to your camp in the forest below. A few days
later, discussing some of these (cooked gipsy fashion) beside
THE SNOW PARTRIDGE. 5
the perfumed blaze of a deodar bon-fire, the most miserable
victim of ennui would be compelled to confess that there was
still something to live for.
I fear I grow prolix ; but as I look back upon " the days
that are no more" the old enthusiasm wakes. I seem once
more to breathe that fresh crisp mountain air—more exhilarating
than France's sunniest vintages—once more to feel the thrill
that the double thud of the two noble, clean-killed birds sends
through one, amidst this glorious scenery and in this champaign
atmosphere. And after all, while scores of men go in for and
rave about big-game shooting, not one in a thousand have
any conception of the splendid sport that the small game of
the Himalayas affords ; and it would be ungrateful were I, who
have enjoyed it so often and so keenly, to pass it by altogether
in silence.
But I gladly turn to the practical wisdom of my old friend
Mountaneer. He says : " In general haunts and habits, this bird
much resembles the Snow Pheasant, frequenting the same high
regions near the snow in summer, and migrating to the same
bare hills and rocks in winter. The Pheasant, however, prefers
the grassy slopes and softer parts of the hills—the Partridge
the more abrupt and rocky portions, where the vegetation is
scantier, and more of a mossy than a grassy character. They
are also more local, and confined to particular spots, and do
not, like the Pheasant, ramble indiscriminately over almost
every part of the hill. They are generally remarkably tame.
When approached, they utter a harsh whistle, and if they keep
still, it is often several moments before they can be distinguished,
their plumage much resembling and blending with the general
colour of much of the ground they frequent. If approached
from above, they fly off at once ; if from below, they walk away
in the opposite direction, calling the whole time, and often cluster
together on the top of some large stone in their way.
Their flight exactly resembles that of the Pheasant, and the
whistle when on the wing being nearly the same, and the
birds having the same white on their wings, they could hardly
be distinguished, when flying past at a distance, but for their
size. They seldom fly far, and if followed and put up again,
often fly back to the spot where first found. At times they seem
unwilling to get up at all, and several shots may be fired at
them before they take wing. I once found a flock on a steep
ledge of rock in the forest, a few days after a severe snowstorm,
which had driven them down to their winter quarters ;
they were a little scattered, and resting on the projecting ledges,
and I fired eleven shots within twenty yards without one bird
attempting to get up. At one bird I fired twice without its
moving at all.
" The Snow Partridge feeds on moss and the tender shoots
of small plants. It is always fat, and its flesh is tender and