University of Virginia Library

CONTROVERSY
CONCERNING THE
GENERA AND DISTINCTIONS OF QUAIL AND
PARTRIDGE;

BY
J. CYPRESS, Jr., H. OF MARIETTA, AND
FRANK FORESTER.

SOME OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING QUAIL.

BY J. CYPRESS, JR.

October has arrived, and has entered into the kingdom
prepared for him by his summery brethren, departed. A kingdom,
truly, within a republic, but mild, magnificent, pro bono
publico, and full of good fruits; so that not a democrat, after
the strictest sect of St. Tammany, but bows the knee. Hail!
O King! His accomplished artists are preparing royal palaces
among the woods and fields, and on the hill-sides, painting the
mountains and arching the streams with glories copied from
the latest fashion of rainbows. His keen morning winds and
cool evening moons, assiduous servants, are dropping diamonds
upon the fading grass and tree-tops, and are driving in the
feathery tenants of his marshes, bays, and brakes. Thrice
happy land and water lord! See how they streak the early
sky, piercing the heavy clouds with the accurate wedge of
their marshalled cohorts, shouting pœans as they go—and how
they plunge into well-remembered waters, with an exalting
sound, drinking in rest and hearty breakfasts! These be seges
of herons, herds of cranes, droppings of sheldrakes, springs of
teals, trips of wigeons, coverts of cootes, gaggles of geese,
sutes of mallards, and badelynges of ducks; all of which the
profane and uninitiated, miserable herd, call flocks of fowl, not
knowing discrimination! Meadow and upland are made harmonious
and beautiful with congregations of plovers, flights
of doves, walks of snipes, exaltations of larks, coveys of partridges,
and bevies of quail.[1] For all these vouchsafed com

forts may we be duly grateful! But chiefly, thou sun-burned,
frost-browned monarch, do we thank thee that thou especially
bringest to igorous maturity and swift strength, our own bird
of our heart, our family chicken, tetrao coturnix.

The quail is peculiarly a domestic bird, and is attached to
his birthplace, and the home of his forefathers. The various
members of the anatic families educate their children in the
cool summer of the far north, and bathe their warm bosoms in
July, in the iced-water of Hudson's Bay; but when Boreas
scatters the rushes where they builded their bedchambers,
they desert their fatherland, and fly to disport in the sunny
waters of the south. They are cosmopolites entirely, seeking
their fortunes with the sun. So, too, heavy-eyed, wise Master
Scolopax fixeth his place of abode, not among the hearths
and altars where his infancy was nurtured, but he goeth a
skaaping where best he may run his long bill into the mud,
tracking the warm brookside of juxta-capricornical latitudes.
The songsters of the woodland, when their customary crops
of insects and berries are cut off in the fall, gather themselves
together to renew their loves, and get married in more genial
climates. Even black-gowned Mr. Corvus,—otherwise called
Jim Crow,—in autumnal fasts contemplateth Australian carcases.
Presently, the groves so vocal, and the sky so full,
shall be silent and barren. The “melancholy days” will soon
be here. Only thou, dear Bob White—not of the Manhattan—
wilt remain. Thy cousin, tetrao umbellus,[2] will be not far off,
it is true; but he is mountainous and precipitous, and lives in
solitary places, courting rocky glens and craggy gorges, misandronist.
Where the secure deer crops the young mosses
of the mountain stream, and the bear steals wild honey, there

drums the ruffed strutter on his ancient hemlock log. Ice
cools not his blood, nor the deep snow-drift, whence he,
startled, whirrs impetuous to the solemn pines, and his hiding
places of laurel and tangled rhododendron, laughing at cheated
dogs and wearied sportsmen. A bird to set traps for. Unfamiliar,
rough, rugged hermit. Dry meat. I like him not.

The quail is the bird for me. He is no rover, no emigrant.
He stays at home, and is identified with the soil. Where the
farmer works, he lives, and loves and whistles.[3] In budding
spring time, and in scorching summer—in bounteous autumn,
and in barren winter, his voice is heard from the same bushy
hedge fence, and from his customary cedars. Cupidity and
cruelty may drive him to the woods, and to seek more quiet
seats; but be merciful and kind to him, and he will visit your
barn-yard, and sing for you upon the boughs of the apple-tree
by your gate-way. But when warm May first woos the young
flowers to open and receive her breath, then begin the loves,
and jealousies, and duels of the heroes of the bevy. Duels,
too often, alas! bloody and fatal! for there liveth not an individual
of the gallinaceous order, braver, bolder, more enduring
than a cock quail, fighting for his ladye-love. Arms, too, he
wieldeth, such as give no vain blows, rightly used. His
mandible serves for other purposes than mere biting of grass-hoppers

and picking up Indian corn. While the dire affray
rages, Miss Quailina looketh on, from her safe perch on a
limb, above the combatants, impartial spectatress, holding her
love under her left wing, patiently; and when the vanquished
craven finally bites the dust, descends and rewards the conquering
hero with her heart and hand.

Now begin the cares and responsibilities of wedded life.
Away fly the happy pair to seek some grassy tussock, where,
safe from the eye of the hawk, and the nose of the fox, they
may rear their expected brood in peace, provident, and not
doubting that their espousals will be blessed with a numerous
offspring. Oats harvest arrives, and the fields are waving
with yellow grain. Now, be wary, oh kind-hearted cradler,
and tread not into those pure white eggs ready to burst with
life! Soon there is a peeping sound heard, and lo! a proud
mother walketh magnificently in the midst of her children,
scratching and picking, and teaching them how to swallow.
Happy she, if she may be permitted to bring them up to maturity,
and uncompelled to renew her joys in another nest.

The assiduities of a mother have a beauty and a sacredness
about them that command respect and reverence in all animal
nature, human or inhuman—what a lie does that word carry
—except, perhaps, in monsters, insects, and fish. I never
yet heard of the parental tenderness of a trout, eating up his
little baby, nor of the filial gratitude of a spider, nipping the
life out of his gray-headed father, and usurping his web. But
if you would see the purest, the sincerest, the most affecting
piety of a parent's love, startle a young family of quails, and
watch the conduct of the mother. She will not leave you.
No, not she. But she will fall at your feet, uttering a noise
which none but a distressed mother can make, and she will
run, and flutter, and seem to try to be caught, and cheat your

outstretched hand, and affect to be wing-broken, and wounded,
and yet have just strength to tumble along, until she has drawn
you, fatigued, a safe distance from her threatened children,
and the young hopes of her heart; and then will she mount,
whirring with glad strength, and away through the maze of
trees you have not seen before, like a close-shot bullet, fly to
her skulking infants. Listen now. Do you hear those three
half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out? She is
calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now “Bob
White!” nor “ah! Bob White!” That is her husband's lovecall,
or his trumpet-blast of defiance. But she calls sweetly
and softly for her lost children. Hear them “peep! peep!
peep!” at the welcome voice of their mother's love! They
are coming together. Soon the whole family will meet again.
It is a foul sin to disturb them; but retread your devious way,
and let her hear your coming footsteps, breaking down the
briars, as you renew the danger. She is quiet. Not a word
is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you have the
heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the
hen-quail. O, mother! mother! how your heart would die
if you could witness the deception! The little ones raise up
their trembling heads, and catch comfort and imagined safety
from the sound. “Peep! peep!” they come to you, straining
their little eyes, and clustering together, and answering, seem
to say, “Where is she! Mother! mother! we are here!”

I knew an Ethiopian once—he lives yet in a hovel, on the
brush plains of Matowacs—who called a whole bevy together
in that way. He first shot the parent bird; and when the
murderous villain had ranged them in close company, while
they were looking over each other's necks, and mingling their
doubts, and hopes, and distresses, in a little circle, he levelled
his cursed musket at their unhappy breasts, and butchered—

“What! all my pretty ones! Did you say all?” He did;
and he lives yet! O, let me not meet that nigger six miles
north of Patchogue, in a place where the scrub oaks cover
with cavernous gloom a sudden precipice, at whose bottom
lies a deep lake, unknown but to the Kwaaek, and the lost
deer-hunter. For my soul's sake, let me not encounter him
in the grim ravines of the Callicoon, in Sullivan, where the
everlasting darkness of the hemlock forests would sanctify
virtuous murder!

My farther reflections on this subject, I will keep, for the
present, to myself.

The poor quail has to contend with many enemies. Not
only with Sir Reynard, who has a constitutional right to levy
tribute upon his race, and his several doubtfully-connected,
half-starved, brother quadrupedal thieves of the greenwood;
not only with the winged pirates of the sky, skimming and
sweeping up and down the waving billows of the yellow field,
with the quietness and speed of a sudden sun-ray; not only
with the horse-hair nooses of school-boy truants, and the figure-y
4 box-traps of vagabond hen-roost pilferers; not only
with the coarse cupidity of the market-man, who kills all to-day,
and cares not for to-morrow; not only with the mean,
falsely called, sportsman, who shoots in season and out of
season, and kills for numbers, and not for exercise, skill's
sake, and honor; but alas! alas! too often with the bleak and
heartless elements themselves! Who does not remember the
horrid snows of thirty-six, which filled all the valleys, and
raised rival mountains alongside of mountains! Then died the
race. The angry clouds at nightfall began to pour out their
wind and sleet, but the quail heart had not yet known to fear
the skies. Each fated bevy, calling in its straggling supper-hunters,
tracked its secure path to the bottom of its favorite

cedar-bush; and there, upon the yet warm bed of oak leaves,
and thick matted spear grass, composed their chilled limbs in
the usual circle, and went to sleep. To sleep? ay, to sleep
forever! No morning came to them. No opportunity had they
to regret unsaid prayers. A late morning came to the world
above, and a cold sun shone on their shroud—their beautiful
shroud of snow! Almost “seven fathoms deep!” buried in
their winding-sheet! No resurrection for ye, poor birds!
Did they think it never would be light? Yes, they fell asleep
there in their beds, and died of too much covering! The
spring came, and the early ploughman dug up a furrow near
their wasted corses. There they lay, side by side, as they
committed themselves to sleep, undivided in death, as they
were beautiful and without reproach in life!

Beethoven must have written his exquisite song of the
“Quail,” after a hard winter. I never heard Catalani sing it,
but I will be sworn it is a solemn anthem.

The quail receives in many countries the most studious and
devout protection. In China they domesticate him, and train
him for the cock-pit. In some states on the continent of Europe
they almost worship him. The German has a beautiful
superstition, that his note expresses the words, “Furchten
Gott.”[4] England is too damp and smoky for him. He cannot
acclimate. The lord, who, by the assistance of his game-keeper,
has an oath made that he killed a quail, is gazetted
through the three kingdoms.

The quail is our bird—our own American bird. Shall
we not protect him and his household? If all the powers of
destruction are let loose to play upon him, how shall he be
saved? Even now, his fate seems to be inevitable, like the
Indians. But a few years since, he was a proud nation—a

green bay tree, If we look not sharply, we soon may say,
“seges est, ubi Troja fuit.” That he is not now utterly annihilated,
and flying in the Elysian fields, with his relative,
tetrao cupido,[5] is owing to the good hearts of a very small
few of his former fellow-citizens, who snatched him from the
snow-bank, and housed, and fed him during the winter, and
gave him to liberty in the spring, and to some other few, who
sent to his people at the south, and renewed his presence in
the faces of his brethren. Even some of these, representatives
of a ruined nation, have been sacrificed in brutal moments,
to adorn the recking cellars of reckless paunch-providers,
and to furnish August—very August—suppers for raw
counter-jumpers, who have heard of his glory.

A few words, by way of application of the subject. The
legislature of the state of New-York, considering all the dangers
and necessities of one of the most worthy families of the
state, have, in no wretched spirit of monopoly, but in the true
spirit of “equal protection to all,” enacted a statue for his
preservation, and have taken the dear bird under their sheltering
wing. No man, nor boy, nor fool, may kill a quail except
between the twenty-fifth of October and the fifth of January,
nor compass, nor procure his death, nor have his murdered
corpse in his possession, out of the specified period, in
either of the humane counties of York, Kings, Queens, or
Westchester! O, Suffolk! how art thou disgraced, not being
named! Fiat lex! Tom Tucker and Jem Valentine, chief

advocates, immortalized themselves! The partridge, too, and
Master Scolopax, in his season, have their passports. Beware
of the heavy penalty.

Finally, this matter recommendeth itself to the serious
attention of all transgressors. The sin hath already stung
divers poachers, and accessories, before and after the fact.
It hath been distinctly proved before a justice of the peace,
that eight times five make forty dollars. Just judgment!
Dear feed! Worse than sour grapes! The Marine Court
hath visited other transgressions with swift judgment. Even
men who have received presents of game from places where
it was lawfully killed, and where it might have been virtuously
manducated, have been sorely mulcted. They have
learned, too late, the awful fate of Hercules. They have
discovered, after they have been impregnated with the poison,
that they must know the giver before they accept a shirt.
They study Ovid, now, and have learned by heart—

and the whole of that chief case in point. Penitent sinners,
I weep for them! Doubt it, and touch the forbidden fruit if
ye dare, and say, “tell that to the marines!”

Lastly—true sportsmen ought to examine themselves, and
take care that they have no disposition for blood in the skirts
of their shooting-jackets, except in the allowed days of October,
November, and December. If the honorable and the
true-hearted submit to temptation, what can we expect from
the—other people.

To conclude; we are all called upon to be careful, and keep
our fore-finger on the trigger of our watchfulness. May I
not remind my fair readers that many a quail dies for them,
and that intempestive collineation hath been too often perpetrated

for their dear sakes. Restrain, O, ye Helens! and
Joans! the ardor of your sacrificing worshippers. Let them
not kill too many. Six, now-a-days, are a sportsman's fortune.
Remember them of the base Jews, who gathered more quail than
were sufficient for immediate consumption, disobeying Moses,
and then rejected the rotting victims, and sighed for the flesh-pots
of Egyptian leeks and onions. And do thou, best Mary!
ever, when thou dippest a minute breast-piece, almost, into
the fading bubble of the sherry at my dexter, playfully, as
thou art wont, be sure thou ask me—“Love, was this bird
killed in season?”

CORRIGENDA;
OR, THE ERRORS OF “CYPRESS CONCERNING QUAIL.”

Mr. Editor; You of course know the importance of
truth—though you are an editor—and will therefore wish to
see any errors corrected which may have crept into your
pages; I accordingly make a few remarks upon the very good
article on “Quail” in your October number.

The writer proves himself entirely ignorant of ornithology,
by his blunders in nomenclature. Thus, he is writing about
the Perdix virginiana—Virginian partridge—and not about
the Perdix coturnix—European quail.—The first is a true
partridge, belonging to the same subgenus with the European
partridge, viz., Ortyx; whilst the quail belongs to the
subgenus Coturnix. In Pennsylvania and Southward, and in

English books, our bird is called—and correctly—partidge.
To judge from Mr. C.'s remarks upon Coturnix, he believes
the same species to inhabit on both sides of the Atlantic,
which is not the fact. Both these birds differ again, from
the genus Tetrao, to two species of which he refers by their
proper names, viz., T. umbellus—ruffed, grouse—and T.
cupido—pinnated grouse. Though Mr. C. does “not care to
believe every thing the students of Linnæus and Buffon say,”
I think with all his Latin acquirements, he would have some
difficulty in determining to what birds now known to us, certain
names were applied by the Romans; for a reference to
a dictionary will not decide the question, so that there is
nothing gained by finding fault at this point. Mr. C., however,
has not even consulted his dictionary honestly, or mine
is a different edition, and contains the following definitions;
Tetrao, grouse; Perdix, partridge; Coturnix, quail; and
Otis, bustard; and naturalists do not use any of these in a
different sense. That the first is Latin for turkey may be
doubted, as the Romans would have been under the necessity
of visiting America to make their acquaintance.

Wilson, the pioneer of American Ornithology, committed
many errors in nomenclature which were then unavoidable;
but these have been corrected, long since, by Bonaparte, who
wrote a continuation of Wilson's work; so that there is no
excuse for the blunders of any one who writes on this—or
any other—subject, without first making himself acquainted
with it. Mr. C. alludes to Audubon, but I am certain he has
never consulted his works, or Bonaparte's or those of any
modern author since the time of Wilson, or he would not
have made the unwhiskered assertion that “the whole race
of ornithologists call the partridge tetrao. Possibly by partridge
he means grouse. This errour—as the New York

Mirrour would say—reminds me of a somewhat similar, but
more aggravated case; that of an upstart who considered the
vernacular—and proper—name of our noble buttonwood tree
vulgar (!) and knowing no other English name—as plane
tree—called it a sycamore!! He might with equal propriety
have called it a cherry-tree. It is an excellent thing to
“call things by their right names.”

To insure an insertion in a sporting magazine, I must admit
that this letter is witten in sport, and the admission, I
hope, will prevent your correspondent from taking offence
and forcing me to take the field, for the liberty I have taken
with his very well written article.

ORNITHOLOGICAL CLASSIFICATION
OF QUAIL.
CORRECTOR CORRIGENDUS;
OR ERRORS OF OTHERS THAN “CYPRESS” CONCERNING QUAIL.

With no slight interest, dear Editor, have I, at various
times, and through the medium of most incongruous and oddly
chosen pages, perused the various lucubrations, on sundry
sporting matters, of our friend Cypress. Nor has it not been
most apparent to me, that our said friend doth entertain strange
fancies, most heretical, unauthorized, and wild, concerning
the nomenclature, whether in the vernacular or in the learned
tongues, of the winged game of the United States; nor heretofore

has this opinion been concealed from the delinquent.
It is not, therefore, to uphold J. Cypress, Jr., that I address
you now, but rather—while admitting all his errors, as pointed
out in your December number, under the head of Corrigenda,
—to add my mite of information on the subject, and to show
that in some cases his corrector is perhaps scarcely less erroneous.

The errors of Cypress are for the most part contained in a
note, wherein he erroneously and somewhat flippantly attacks
the Latin nomenclatures of the birds, which we usually designate
game, of the gallinaceous order. His attack, though
somewhat desultory, is directed principally to two points—in
both of which we humbly think he errs. First, he objects to
the statement of Audubon and Wilson that the quail is migratory,
and to the use of the word “flocks,” in speaking of this
migratory habit. Secondly, he insinuates an objection to the
use of the word “partridge,” as applied to the American quail.
And thirdly, he charges all these faults to the score of the
whole race of ornithologists, who, he says, have given the
name Tetrao, “which means a bustard or wild turkey,” to the
partridge, and who have called the American quail perdix virginiana,
whereas they would have found, under certain contingencies,
that the true appellation is coturnix.

Now in all this, except in his condemning the southern application
of the word “partridge” to the American quail, he is
clearly wrong.

For as to the word “Flocks,” it is correctly used—and the
word “bevies,” which he would substitute, would in the sense
of the context be manifestly incorrect. A bevy of quail is,
so many as are hatched of one pair in the course of one season,
remaining under the guardianship of the old birds, and
unmixed with any other bevy. When two or three bevies join

together—as is not uncommonly the case late in the season,
particularly in wild and windy weather—the united bevies constitute
a “flock!” The same habit is observed in the English
partidge, Tetrao Scoticus; and in the Red Grouse of the British
isles Tetrao Scoticus; and in both of these the habit of so joining
covies or broods is properly termed packing; and the united
covies designated as packs. The man who would call three
hundred brace of moorfowl on the wing together, which glorious
sight I have seen both in Cumberland and Fifeshire, a
covey, would be voted a tailor on a very large scale, indeed—
and I think the wight who should apply the term bevy to a
similar or larger company of quail—and they do migrate unquestionably
in larger bodies than that—would have some difficulty
in avoiding the same inculpatory title.

With regard to his Latinity, Cypress is yet more widely
out—“Tetrao” does not mean, nor ever did, either bustard or
wild turkey—the ornithological and classical name for the
bustard being “otis,” as your correspondent H. has justly remarked—while
that for the wild turkey would by analogy, be
“meleagris fera,” or “sylvestris,”—the word meleagris being
the term adapted to the turkey from some unknown bird—probably
the guinea fowl—mentioned by classical writers.

To what bird the word Tetrao in Latin, in Greek,
was originally applied, it is not easy now to discover; it was,
however, of the gallinaceous order, and obtained its name
from four wattles, which it is described as having possessed,
bare of feathers. This word Tetrao has been applied—and,
as it seems to me, very judiciously—to gallinaceous game in
general, from the great Capercali of Northern, down to the
minute quail of Southern Europe, by Linnæus. The generic
differences are expressed by the second noun attached, as
Tetrao perdix—the English partridge—Tetrao Rufus, the red

legged partridge—Tetrao coturnix, the quail, &c., &c., ad infinitum.
So that Cypress is, in fact, entirely in error with regard
to the alleged misapplication of both terms; and is clearly
wrong in his Latinity. If, moreover, there be an error in the
name perdix virginiana, it is attributable, not to the whole race
of naturalists, but merely to those naturalists who have created
a new name for a new bird.

Now in my humble opinion, Corrector is no less in error—
as I shall endeavor to show—in his corrigenda. “Thus”—
he says—“he—Cypress—is writing about the perdix Virginiana,
Virginian partridge, and not about the Perdix Coturnix,
European quail. The first is a true partridge, belonging to
the same subgenus with the European, viz. ortyx; whilst the
quail belongs to the subgenus coturnix. In Pennsylvania and
southward, and in English books, our bird is called—and correctly—partridge.”

Now the gist of all this amounts to a simple assertion that
the American bird belongs to a different genus from the English
quail, and is a partridge. Now this I am satisfied is an
error. From what book your correspondent H. draws his
nomenclature I have not been able to discover; but from
whatsoever, it is not a distinct, or, in my opinion, correct
one. In no book that I have or can refer to, is the European
partridge—English partridge?—classed as ortyx—nor the
quail as Perdix—but both are generally classed as Tetrao, with
the definitions perdix and coturnix. Such is the nomenclature
of Linnæus, Buffon, and Bewick—the last decidedly the
best British ornithologist. The subgeneric nomenclatures alluded
to by your correspondent H. have no foundation in classical
propriety, ortyx being merely the Greek——and coturnix
the Latin for Quail. So that as an appellation intended
to convey a distinction, the new term ortyx, as opposed to co

turnix, is absurdly ill chosen—being a distinction without a
difference!—With regard to habits, the American bird is infinitely
more similar to the quail than to the partridge; whether
English or red-legged. The partridge is a bolder bird,
stronger, and freer of wing, less apt to skulk, or run before
dogs—and never perching, even on rails, much less on trees
or bushes—and rarely flying to any woody covert. The European
quail skulks, and runs, almost precisely as its American
congener, flies, immediately on its being roused, to the
nearest brake or thicket, and is with great difficulty flushed a
second time; it likewise occasionally, though not often
perches on low shrubs. It is, moreover, migratory, which
the partridge is not, and which the American quail most certainly
is, as I can testify from my own observation; while in
size, general appearance, character of plumage, and cry, it is
much more nearly connected with the English quail, than with
any partridge existing.

In my opinion, therefore—and I am satisfied that facts will
bear out my opinion—the Perdix Virginiana is not a true
partridge—and is not correctly termed a partridge in Pennsylvania
and southward—any more than the ruffed grouse—Tetrao
umbellus—is correctly termed a pheasant in the same regions.
The English books, to which your correspondent refers,
are probably books of travels, using the term in describing
the bird which the authors have heard applied to it here
—for we are aware of no English ornithological work of authority
describing the birds of America. As to whether the
nomenclature Perdix virginiana be correctly deduced or not,
is a different question; and bears nothing on the point at issue.
I should rather prefer myself to designate it as Tetrao
coturnix; varietas Virginiana; or more simply Tetrao Virginianus;
but so that it is made evident what bird is meant,

and to what genus, and species, and order, it belongs, the mere
name matters little.

Of the Partridge there are but two varieties in Europe—or,
as far as known, in Africa—the grey, or English, and the red-legged;
and both these are by Linnæus styled Tetrao—the
one perdix, the other rufus. The term ortyx is not used by
him, and is—as I have shown above—an absurd term to use
in opposition to coturnix, as distinguishing partridge from
quail.

The truth is, that in the common phraseology of this country
the nomenclature of game has been sadly confused; by
the fact that the original settlers named the birds they found
here, after fancied similitudes to the birds they remembered
at home; and that their errors have been handed down from
age to age, till they are now almost ineradicable. Hence the
quail is called a partridge in the South—while no less erroneously
the ruffed grouse is termed a partridge in the Eastern
and Middle, and a pheasant in the Southern States; and will
so be termed till the world's end by all but book-read ornithologists,
students of Buffon and Linnæus, at whom J. Cypress,
Jr.—commend me to him when you meet—sneers so unmercifully
and, me judice, unwisely.

My Dear Turf: I perceive that some, doubtless, very
clever gentleman has been doing the amiable for me, in the
Irish fashion, in the sod you have just cut out and registered.

He is pleased to assure you that the unpretending author of a
few observations concerning quail, copied by your Magazine
from a publication made some years since, “proves himself
entirely ignorant of ornithology, by his bluuders in nomenclature.”
He sneers at “all his Latin acquirements,” and charges
that “he has not even consulted his dictionary honestly.”
But, worse and worse, he insists that although Mr. C. alludes
to Audubon, yet that he—the aforesaid clever gentleman—is
certain that Mr. C. “has never consulted his works, nor Bonaparte's
nor those of any modern author since the time of Wilson,
or he would not have made the unwhiskered! assertion that the
whole race of ornithologists call the partridge `TETRAO.' ” Then
follows some fun about the New-York Mirror, which I do not
understand. General Morris can take care of himself. Perhaps
he had better order out one of his regiments, and plant
a park of artillery before his office, for his better defence.
Though, on second thought, the admission made in the last
paragraph of the “Corrigenda” we are referring to, that the
“article is written in sport,” may induce composure and confidence
among the office imps, and there will be no necessity
for extra Cannon.

But as to myself. Permit me to defend variously. I desire
to take issue on part of the charges against me. I want
to confess in part, and let part go by default; or give a cognovit
for the amount of damages. I admit that my assertion
was “unwhiskered.” I admit it with grief. I ask leave to
amend—as the lawyers say—“on payment of costs;” and I
will presently re-present the assertion full “whiskered,” if
my learned commentator will have it so, with the mature hair
of judgment of ornithologists who, now, have no more books
to sell.

Next as to my “utter ignorance of ornithology,” and my

“blunders in nomenclature,” I plead not guilty. I, at the
same time, admit that I am no professed bird-philosopher, nor
herald of the honors, orders, distinctions, and relationships of
the feathered race, But I have long known many of them, intimately,
and loved them with the love of a sportsman, and a
lover of nature; and have read the history of them and their
kin in many books, and have talked to them, and heard them
talk, and I know what names to call them, and if I “blunder,”
I know where to go to get corrected; and if I hear some
other devotee—even though he be a master—miscall them,
I have assurance enough, when I can prove it, to point out
his kakology. I am no carpenter, yet I live in a house. I
have written no book, yet I have read some, and consulted
many. Shall I be enjoined from the expression of my opinion
as to the construction of either, because I have not builded
nor written? I shall insist, on this head, under my forthcoming
proofs, that I am not “utterly ignorant,” &c., but, at
the very furthest, only very considerably “ignorant.”

Next, as to the insinuation about my “Latin acquirements,”
which, I suppose, of course is intended to signify want of
them; if it will do Mr. H. any good, he may take judgment
against me by default.

Touching the last grave charge, that I have not “consulted”
either Audubon or Bonaparte, I am bound to take
issue; for this accusation, if true, involves me in the crime of
a falsehood—a falsehood that could have been concocted only
by the most barefaced affectation of knowledge, and the most
extraordinary good luck of a rambling fancy. I will consider
this matter further, presently; when I will also endeavor to
prove that I have consulted my “dictionary honestly.” Mean
time, I will persist in declaring that although the hard necessities
of impecuniosity have denied to me the delight of enshrining

Audubon among my household divinities—he being
a dear God,—yet I have “consulted” him, where I have consulted
Pliny, Linnæus, Buffon, and other gentlemen, whose
company Mr. “H.” need not stick up his nose at, in a place
which it is not necessary Mr. H. should know. Nevertheless,
my good Turf, if your etymological-fact-hunting correspondent,
who delicately intimates to you, that you “of course
know the importance of truth—although you are an Editor,”—
has the control of any extra copies of Mr. Audubon, not immediately
called for, and will leave a set for me at your office, I
will promise to study as well as “consult” him, and will give
up, or lease, grant, bargain, sell, assign, transfer, and set over
to him, all my right and title to call Quail “Coturnix,” to
have and to hold to him and his heirs forever.

But let us look into the case, and the evidence of my alleged
guilt. In the spirit of a modest sportsman, who does
not pretend to talk to Princes of bird craft, I wrote some time
since, some humble, melancholy, “Observations Concerning
Quail,” not to exalt my reputation as a naturalist, but to plead
to the sympathies of the true sportsman, and to notify the
poachers of the terrors of the new law most mercifully passed
by our Legislature, for the protection and salvation of my
sweetheart's favorite bird. I was indiscreet enough to add
to my discourse a note in the following words, to wit:

Hinc illœ lachrymœ! Hence the ululation of Mr. H., and
his “Corrigenda.”

Now let us dissect the note.

I. Cypress.—“I am not unaware that Audubon describes
the quail as migratory at the West, and that he says that the
shores of the Ohio, in the Fall, are covered with FLOCKS.
Flocks!

Mr. H.—commenting.—Mr. C. alludes to Audubon, but I
am certain he has never consulted his works.

Permit me to ask, then—if Mr. H. be correct,—how I
found out that Audubon called bevies of quail “flocks of
partridge.” Yet he does do so, and commits a high and
heavy sin. Even admitting that he may be right in calling
them “partridges,” he had no authority to speak of their
“greges,” but as “covies.” It is unpardonable in a naturalist
to talk of “flocks of partridges.” He does also say that the
quail is migratory at the West. Did I dream these two distinct
facts? Is this the way “Mr. H.” writes “in sport?”
Or must I, by silence submit to an imputation of pedantry
and falsehood? Or is it because I casually alluded to the
fault of Audubon—which he copied from Wilson—that his
friend writes so fiercely “in sport.”

II. My next sentence refers to the fact that Wilson said he
had heard the “Partridge or Quail,” as he calls it, was migratory
in Nova Scotia. Wilson is not to be blamed, for he
refers only to hearsay as to the travelling story; and for aught
I know, he is correct. Quails have different habits in different
countries. But Mr. H., doubtless, thinks him in error
because he calls the bird quail or partridge. Hence he gives
a fling at him, for “many errors,” all of which, he assures us,

were long since corrected by Bonaparte, &c.—For Bonaparte,
read Audubon. Bonaparte was more distinguished for his
addenda than for his “Corrigenda” of his master's works.—
As to the attempt to make Wilson, of whom Audubon is evidently
a liberal borrower, responsible for all the errors of
previous nomenclators, I can but smile. I cannot be guilty
of assuming to defend that eloquent pioneer poet of the woods,
swamps, bays and fields, from a pirate shot. I would sooner
deliver a lecture to prove that the sun gave light and warmed
animal creation into existence and maturity.

III. Cypress.—“Nevertheless, I do not care to believe
every thing which the students of Linnæus and Buffon say,
who talk of `flocks of partridges' and mean `bevies of quail.' ”

Mr. H.—Though Mr. C. does not care to believe all that
the students of Linnæus and Buffon say, I think,” &c.

Mr. H.! Mr. H.! is that fair, “in sport,” or in earnest, to
tear my sentence apart, and smother my distinction between
those students of Linnæus and Buffon who do talk of “flocks
of partridges,” and those who do not? Nimrod, and all the
Dii Minores forbid! that I should be convicted of disrepect
to the true students of good masters. I only spoke of the
boys who forgot some part of their lesson, and, with confident
ability, trusted to their own manufacture, or to doubtful authority.
Need I answer a charge of “scandalum magnatum”
before it is proved?

IV. Cypress.—“By-the-by, what is the reason that the
whole race of ornithologists call the partridge “tetrao,” which
is Latin for a bustard and a wild turkey?”

Mr. H.—“Unwhiskered assertion.”—Again; “Mr. C.,
however, has not even consulted his dictionary, honestly, or
mine is a different edition, and contains the following definitions;
Tetrao, Grouse; Perdix, Partridge; Coturnix, Quail;

and Otis, Bustard;” and “naturalists do not use any of them
in a different sense”

In answer to all this, I shall simply quote authorities. My
dictionaries certainly ARE of a different edition from those of
“Mr. H.” as he suggests.

There was, in old times, a man named Pliny, who, on account
of his knowing all the wonders and varieties of nature,
was called “the Naturalist.” He was almost next to Solomon,
the beginner of bird biographies.

This author, not unknown to fame, distinctly used the word
“tetrao” for a “bustard,” or bistard.[6] See him for the fact,
and Ainsworth, also, who, in the Dictionary line, has always
been considered a very respectable person. If the two last
named people don't know what is Latin for a “bustard,” I am
at a loss to know who does.

Ainsworth, moreover, calls “Otis” a sort of owl, quoting in
illustration the remarkable phrase “Quas Hispania aves tardos
appellat,” from Pliny aforesaid—“aves tardos”—slow
birds! Now we very well know that the owl is a slow bird,
and that the Bustard is a brisk one. In proof of the latter
fact read from any author who lives where the Bustard runs,
how difficult a bird he is to get a shot at.—It is no more than
fair to admit, however, that Ainsworth also calls the Bustard
“Buteo.” That, nevertheless, is only a synonyme.—

Again; Kenrick, in his substantial well-reputed dictionary
of 1783, defines Bustard—F. bistardo—Wild Turkey.

The learned Dr. Adam Littleton, in his quarto Latin Dictionary
of 1723, defines a bustard Otis—tarda—TETRAO!—

bustardus—asio. In another place he distinctly translates
“Tetrao” a bustard, or bistardo.

Dr. Johnson also renders “Bustard” Turkey, quoting old
Hakewill.[7]

I trust, therefore, that I am not entirely without authority
for my intimation that “Tetrao” is one of the synonymical
words for “wild turkey or bustard.” I shall not pretend to
show that the old Romans ever knew the wild turkey, though
it is hard to tell what “Gallus Africanus—avis turcica vel
Afra” was—called, also, by Ainsworth, gallus Numidianus,
—which those splendid epicures used to send for to Africa.
It cost Pennant, in his British Zoology, some pains to prove
that the Romans knew not Turkey. It is enough for me to
know upon the authority of a shrewd writer in Rees, that
turkeys were brought into England by the way of Spain,
from Mexico and Yucatan, so early as the year 1524, since
which time the whole race of modern ornithologists have
written. They did not begin to publish their studies, and
proposed divisions, until about the middle of the eighteenth
century. The application of the Latin word Tetrao to Turkey
may have been made immediately upon the introduction
of the bird to the Eastorn Continent, and so have justified the
subsequent lexicographers whom I have quoted, in their
definitions. It does not amount to much to refer to the fact,
that the prevailing impression is, that the old Romans fed not
on turkey, for with the same sort of triumph I might refer to the

fact that there is no evidence of their knowledge of any sort
of grouse, unless, indeed, partridge, and quail are to be referred
to that genus, and for these they had distinct names,
viz. Perdix and Coturnix. Linnæus, in 1740 or thereabouts,
does so refer to them, and in the mention of the quail in what
he esteems its proper place, calls our quail Tetrao Virginianus.
He, however, finds another species in Maryland, adjoining,—which
is, nevertheless, precisely the same bird,—
and ushers it to the world under the title of Tetrao Marilandus.

But this reference to Quail again reminds me that I am
trespassing upon your pages, and that the subject is a dry
one. I come now to a conclusion.

V.—“It is not the less to be admired that they call the
quail Perdix Virginiana,” says Cypress, finally, in his
note.

And so they do. Latham begins the nomenclature, leaving
out the Tetrao of Linnæus, and substituting perdix. Yes, Mr.
Turf, that is the fact, according to those learned cognoscents.
We leap out with our dogs, and do some moderate work
among a few bevies, as we call them, of what we also call
Quail, but when we come home, we are told that the quail
does not live in this country—that we have only tumbled
Virginian partridges—Perdix Virginiana! So says Mr.
Audubon. What then? Have we no quail in this country?
Suppose we shoot in Maryland, is our game, then, the Virginian
Partridge! Latham says no; they are the Maryland
Partridge? What shall we call our bird in New York, Jersey,
and the New England States? Perdix Neo-Eboracensis?
Perdix Nova-Cæsariensis? Perdix Nova-Brittanicus!—
A fico for these affectations. Why do not ornithologists

agree upon standard names to put at the head of their genus?[8]
And what is more natural than that they should, in a case
like this, take the long, well-settled, and established word
Coturnix for the name of the genus of the tribe, and then let
the different species come in with their tributes of honor and
respect? Yet Latham, Audubon, and others, have utterly
stricken Coturnix from existence, so far as the country is concerned.

But enough. I forbear. I had not aspired to pull down,
or even to amend the system as established, but have merely
made a passing comment upon it, in one or two particulars.

The strictures of Mr. H. have compelled me to defend
myself from the charge of entire ignorance, want of honesty,
and constructive falsehood. Having thus the opportunity
before me, I will assure Mr. H. that there is no authority of
modern date, however potential, that will induce us sportsmen
and farmers of the North to give up the name of “quail.”
When our New England forefathers first arrived in this
country, some of them wrote back the most glowing accounts
of their new home, and among other game enumerated
“Quailes,” appearing to observe no difference between
those they found here and those they had left behind in England.[9]
Quails all over the world belong to the same genus.
The quail of Cuba, which I have seen on its native island, is a
bright various plumage-colored bird, painted as it were, with
almost all the colors of the rainbow. But this is only his
style of dress in the West Indian seas. The partridge—all

animals there are gorgeously apparrelled. Still he is Coturnix.
Such is his every day Spanish name. The same is
the case with Perdix. Permit me, then, to stand by the
universal coturnix.—Good morning.

ON NOMENCLATURE.
“ALL IN THE WRONG.”

The communications of Messrs. Forester and Cypress Jr.,
have recalled my attention to the nomenclature of the partridges;
and as their views do not appear to me to be correct,
and as I have myself committed an error, I think a few farther
remarks may not be amiss, premising that I had the use
of a good library at hand when I penned the former article,
and can make no reference except to my own on this occasion.
On account of their being standard modern works, I
shall make use of the following, and the synonymes therein
cited;—

• 1. Jardine's Natural History of Game Birds.—
  Edinburgh: 1834.

• 2. Jenyn's Manual of British Vertebrate Animals.[10] —
  Cambridge and London: 1835.

• 3. Audubon's Synopsis of the Birds of North America.—
  Edinburgh: 1839.

• 4. Nuttall's Ornithology of the United States and Canada.—
  Boston: 1840.

Linnæus, although a great naturalist, and the father of zoological
nomenclature, had a very imperfect conception of what
constitutes a genus. Thus, besides including the brown,
black, and white bears in the genus Ursus, he named our
raccoon Ursus lotor although it is not a bear. It is now called
Procyon lotor a new generic name being given to it, to which
the old specific name has been added. The genus Tetrao of
Linnæus is restricted to the grouse, and a more recent division
separates the ptarmigans under the name Lagopus, generally
considered a subgenus of the former. I will take the fox as
an illustration of a subgenus. The Linnæan genus Canis includes
the foxes, the European species being the Canis vulpes.
But the foxes are not considered to differ sufficiently from the
dogs to entitle them to a distinct generic appellation; hence
they are placed in the subgenus Vulpes, being distinguished
by the pointed muzzle, bushy tail, and especially by having a
long narrow pupil, which in the dogs, is circular. Now if
we call the foxes Vulpes, we cannot call the European species
Vulpes vulpes, but must invent a new specific name, hence this
animal is termed Vulpes vulgaris but it is a rule that no specific
name can be changed unless a change like this occurs. Linnæus
named the only North American bird of the partridge
family Tetrao Virginianus; when the genus Perdix was instituted,
it became Perdix Virginianus, and now that a more minute—or
subgeneric—distinction is thought necessary, it becomes
an Ortyx. Those who do not admit the last division
continue to call the genus Perdix; and it would be just as absurd
to call a raccoon and a badger Ursus as this bird Tetrao.
If it is proper for those ornithologists who do not admit the

subgenera Perdix, Ortyx, Coturnix, and Lophortix—Californian
partridges with plumed heads,—to name all these Perdix,
it is certainly not improper to term the Ortyges partridges, for
although the quail of Europe may be considered a kind of partridge,
no partridge or Ortyx can be considered a kind of
quail. Mr. Forester is right, and I am wrong, with respect
to the subgenus of the European partridges, which belong to
the subgenus Perdix, or partridge proper; whence the parttridge,
quail, and American bird, belong to three[11] distinct subgenera,
our bird being as far removed as ever from any species
of quail, of which there are many. Mr. Forester objects
to the term Ortyx, but it cannot be changed, as being the first
proposed for the section to which it is attached; and it was
chosen because it was easier to adopt, than to invent a new
name. The Turkey genus is called by a Latin name for the
same reason.

“The English books” to which I referred in part, are those
whose titles stand above. Jardine calls our bird “The Virginian
quail or partridge,—following Wilson, of whose work
he edited an English edition,—whilst Jenyn terms it “Virginian
partridge.” Latham makes three species of it, viz:
“the Virginian, Maryland, and Mexican partridge,” the last
being the young, according to Nuttall. Shaw calls it “Northern
Colin,” this term meaning “a bird of the partridge kind.”—
[Webster.] Were the bird a quail, Shaw would have said
so, being well acquainted with the quails. It is also the
“American partridge or quail” of Nuttall.

I inferred that Mr. Cypress Jr. had not read the modern
authors on our ornithology, because he says the partridge is
called Tetrao, and I think my inference a fair one. However,

as the gentleman takes issue on this point, I explain
the matter by supposing that he means grouse—Tetrao—when
he writes “partridge.” Audubon, in his Synopsis, calls the
ruffed grouse “Partridge Pheasant,” although he refers to it
as being described under the name of ruffed grouse in his
fifth volume, the name given it by Wilson, Nuttall, Richardson,
Swainson, and Jardine. I could not “dream” that a
writer could have consulted any of these authorities, and afterwards
term a grouse “partridge.”

Mr. C. has fully succeeded in placing his errors in definition
upon certain lexicographers, but these gentry know as
little as any of us to what particular animals, plants, or minerals,
the ancients attached certain names. You might puzzle
a bishop, by showing him a mineral, and requesting to know
whether it is the — of the Bible. Cuvier has done
more, perhaps, than any lexicographer, to clear up the confusion
existing in the definition of these names. He first informed
us, for instance to what bird now known the name
Ibis was applied. Birds must be known before they can be
named, and lexicographers are not famous for their acquaintance
with this subject. Natural history Latin may be bad
enough, but depend upon it, Mr. Cypress, “Law Latin” is
equally defective.

The “errors of Wilson” are those of nomenclature, and
they were unavoidable, as I have already remarked. I made
no allusion to his vulgar names, having referred to his systematic
nomenclature alone, wherein he occasionally adds a
new name to a species which had been named previously.
It was not Audubon, but Bonaparte, who rectified these errors;
and we are indebted to him moreover, for a continuation
of Wilson in four volumes, containing the most elaborately
finished plates of birds ever engraved. Mr. C. must

not infer that I undervalue the labors of Wilson, because I
make a casual allusion to his errors. As an observer, as an
ornithologist, he stands much above his successors, and we
owe him our gratitude for his labors in clearing the subject of
the rubbish with which it was encumbered. Wilson is the
last man at whom I would presume to “fling a pirate shot,”
and I recently read with the greatest pleasure, the refutation
of a charge of plagiarism preferred against him by Mons. Audubon.
I may add that I felt this stroke of Mr. C. much more
than any other in the same article.

Cypress Jr. alludes to the Maryland partridge of Latham,
and wishes to know whether the bird might not be called
Perdix Noveboracensis if found in New York? By no means.
Latham thought he was describing different species, it being
a rather common occurrence for an ornithologist to mistake a
female, or young, or birds in different plumage, for distinct species.
In such cases the earliest name must stand, and the later
and incorrect ones are cancelled the moment it is discovered
that the supposed new species has—or have—no existence.

“Latham, Audubon, and others, have wholly stricken Coturnix
from existence, so far as this country is concerned,”
because not a single species is found here, as I have endeavored
to show. Jardine—who elevates Ortyx and Cortunix
to the rank of genera—says—

Our bird does perch, however; ergo, it is not a quail.
Taking English names as the standard, we certainly make
ourselves ridiculous in applying them to our birds. Thus we
call vultures, buzzard and crow; a thrush, robin—the English
blackbird is a thrush;—a buzzard, hawk; and more locally,
a grouse, partridge; an ortyx, quail; and a perch, salmon!

Should a State Legislature make it penal to kill, “pheasants,
partridges, and quails,” I would not hesitate to incur a
suit, as I could prove that these families are not in America.
For my own part I like this confusion, and should like to see
it ten times greater, as it would tend to throw the vulgar names
into disrepute. I go so far as to erase the English names from
the plates of my works of natural history. I believe I have
stated all the facts of the case, and leave it with the reader to
decide with what propriety he has hitherto applied certain
English names to the Ortyx Virginiana and Tetrao Umbellus.

PARTRIDGE AND QUAIL.

Dear Editor:—Having read with some interest a communication
headed “All in the wrong,” from your correspondent
H., of Marietta, I presume,—such at least was the date
of his article, published in your December number—but not

perceiving that he has shown that I am either all, or at all, in
the wrong, I wish to have one last word in the question.

You will of course remember that this controversy arose
from the fact of H. having put forth an article, entitled “Corrigenda,”
in your December number, containing strictures on
a very beautifully written, sportive, and humorous paper in
your number for October—“Some Observations Concerning
Quail”—by J. Cypress, Jr. This paper was evidently written
as a jeu d'esprit, laying no pretension to ornithological research,
or superior wisdom—but was clearly the production
of the leisure moments of a sportsman, scholar, and gentleman
—wherein, inter alia, he laughed at ornithologists for calling
“bevies of quail, flocks of partridge.”

On this paper—my object is briefly to place before your
readers the disjecta membra of the whole discussion—on this
paper H. discourses thus;—

In reply to this, I—Frank Forester—observed in your January
number, as follows, immediately after quoting the above
extract;—

I proceed to state that “as I can testify from my own observation,
the American bird is, in size, general appearance,
character of plumage, and cry, much more nearly connected
with the English quail than with any partridge existing.”

Thirdly I said—“and I am satisfied that facts will bear out
my opinion—that the Perdix Virginiana is not a true partridge
—and is not correctly termed a partridge in Pennsylvania, any
more than the ruffed grouse—Tetrao umbellus—is correctly
termed a pheasant in the same regions.”

Lastly I said “that the term ortyx is an absurd term to use
in opposition to coturnix, as distinguishing partridge from
quail”—because ortyx——is the Greek, and Coturnix the
Latin, name for the European quail.”

Now though in his article in your February number H.
says that their—i. e. mine and Cypress's—views do not appear
to him correct, I wish to point out to you that so far from
confuting one of my positions, he has confirmed them all; and
entirely changed his own ground.

In his first December paper he asserts—“that the American
bird, Perdix virginiana, is a true partridge, belonging to
the same subgenus with the European partridge, viz., ortyx.”

To this I responded not that the American bird is a quail—
But “that it is not a true partridge—nor of the same subgenus
with the European partridge—and farther that the word ortyx
would be an absurd term as distinctive between partridge and
quail.”

Now hear H. in his present paper—February No. p. 111
—“Mr. Forester is right and I am wrong with regard to the
subgenus of the European partridges, which belong to the subgenus
perdix, or partridge proper!!”

Again he says—“Linnæus named the only North American
bird of the family Tetrao; when the genus perdix was instituted
it became Perdix virginianus!, and now that a more
minute—or subgeneric—distinction is thought necessary, it
becomes an ortyx!”

Ergo! by his own showing, the American bird is not, as

he asserted, and I denied, of the same subgenus with the European
partridge; nor a perdix—which he defines Partridge
proper! and I defined true partridge!—at all.

So far, then, H. has left his position, and come over to
mine!

In the next place I asserted that ortyx— in Greek—
was an absurd word to use as a distinctive term between the
quail and partridge. H. having asserted that the European
partridge and American quail—so called commonly—are ortyges;
and the European quail a coturnix!

And the reason which I gave was, that the words and
coturnix are the same term, meaning the same thing in two
languages.

H. now admits that the new word ortyx is a term invented
not to distinguish the quail from the partridge, but to distinguish
the European Quail from a nameless American bird,
which is neither quail nor partridge! In this sense Frank
Forester never objected to the term; and every part of his
first position is carried out—excepting the remark that the
American bird is more nearly connected with the European
quail than with any partridge existing; and on this point I
will say a few words anon.

H., then, has come over to my statements. First—that the
American bird is not of the same subgenus with the European
partridge, nor is a proper partridge at all!

Secondly, that the European partridge is not an ortyx; and

Thirdly, that the term ortyx has not been applied as a distinction
between quail and partridge; but between quail and a
bird hitherto nameless, and indeed seemingly so still in the
vernacular.

Hear what he says!—“Whence the partridge, quail, and
American bird belong to three”—misprinted those—“distinct

subgenera, our bird being as far removed as ever from any
species of quail, of which there are several!”

Here, then, I might close my article; for I never asserted
that the American bird was a quail—and all that I did assert
—viz., that he was not a partridge—is granted. Therefore,
none of my views before stated were incorrect, nor was I all
in the wrong, or wrong at all.

Now, however, we will go a little farther, and see what
ORTYX virginianus is, and what we must call him—and whether
he is more closely allied to Partridge or to Quail.

And first—Why did the Naturalists, who formed the subdivision
of the genus, call him ortyx——the Greek for
quail? If they had only wished to make a distinction showing
him equally far from quail and partridge, they would not
have merely rested contented with calling him quail, in a
varied language or dialect.

In my humble opinion the very choice of the name shows
that the discriminating Naturalist—who discovered the small
points of distinction “between the quail and thick strong-billed
partridges of the new world,” which he admits to be “so similar,
that they are not to be distinguished without a knowledge
of their habits and an examination of their forms”—considered
the distinction between the American bird and the quail, less
than the distinction between the same bird and the partridge.

It will of course be seen at once that the writer quoted
above—Sir William Jardine—means that the quail and American
bird are “so similar as not to be distinguished without a
knowledge of their habits, and an examination of their forms”
—and not the European quail and European partridge! For
it is obvious that—the European Grey partridge being thirteen
inches long, and the European Red-legged partridge the same
length, but heavier and stronger, while the European quail

does not exceed seven inches and a half—the similarity of
which he speaks is not between these birds, which a blind
man might distinguish by their weight and size!

Sir William Jardine shows what these slight distinctions
are—“In the bill and legs”—he says—“there are slight modifications;
but the form of the wing is quite different—the first
three quills being longest—in the quail,—while in the partridges
the third is longest, and the third and fourth in the ortyx.”

Well may he say the distinction is small!—a slight modification
in the legs and bill, and the fact that the three first
quills of the quail are longest, and the third and fourth in the
American bird or ortyx!

The plumage of both species of European Partridge is utterly
different either from that of the European Quail or the
American bird. Each of the European partridges is nearly
double the size of either of the others; while the Quail and
American bird are very nearly of a size—the American a little
the larger!—and very similar in their general appearance
and plumage.

In habits, particularly in their fierce pugnacity, the Quail
and American bird resemble each other much. The European
Quail certainly is—and many writers state on good
authority—and I fully believe the fact—that the American
bird is likewise—migratory!

The English quail does not perch, to the same extent
with the American bird;—though he does take to bushy
covert—which the Grey partridge never does—but this one
fact is not enough, surely, to make the difference greater, in
spite of the distinctions of size, weight and feather. The
bird called in this country, incorrectly—for I am well aware
there is a small distinction—the English Snipe, occasionally

perches—I have seen it do so, on two occasions, at Pine
Brook, in New Jersey—on rails, bushes, and even on tall willow
trees; and I can prove the fact by the testimony of eye
witnesses, if it be doubted!—yet no one would say, Ergo it
is not a snipe!—at least I think not; though I am certain a
man who should assert in Europe that he had seen snipe
alight in trees would be laughed at and disbelieved, as the
bird there never does so!

That the American bird is, ornithologically and strictly
speaking, a quail, I never asserted.

I denied that it was a partridge, as H. did assert, and has
now yielded.

I did assert, and still do so, that it is more closely connected
with the English quail than with any partridge existing.

Its size—its weight—its plumage—its habits—and last,
not least, its new ornithological name ortyx—Greek quail—
prove that it is so—and that it is so in the opinion, and on
the data of the very ornithologists, who have divided it from
the subgenus coturnix, on account of distinctions which they
admit to be so small as to be undistinguishable, except on minute
examination.

I doubt not that the birds are well divided. It is very obvious
that the European partridge—a bird twice as big as
either quail or ortyx—is rightly separated from them!—and
I doubt not that there are distinctions justifying the ornithologist
in separating the European from the American Quail—
although they are invisible to a common eye! But in the
meantime what shall we call the bird? Not partridge, for it is
not one clearly and confessedly!—I think best to stick to Quail
as the Naturalists themselves half call him so still!—people
would surely laugh at us if we called them ortyges, and I
think very justly!

As to the Ruffed Grouse—Tetrao Umbellus—I never, either
in conversation or in black and white, called it a partridge;
unless to people who knew it only by that name—and I ever
have esteemed it equally incorrect and unsportsmanlike to
do so.

I have now made an end of my paper, and I think your
correspondent H. will admit, after reading it, and after—if he
will—comparing the three articles—that Frank Forester is
not all in the wrong. If you care to show your correspondents
in general how very like the plumage of the English
Quail is to that of the American bird, I send you a drawing,
made by myself many years ago, from one I shot myself;
my notes give, length, 7 1-4 inches—width from wing to
wing, 9 1-2—weight 6 1-10 oz. If you choose, have it done
on wood—but take care of it, and do not let it be besmirched,
as I value it,