“With regard to the northern and southern limits of this species, less is known. I found it in 1850, on the Limpia creek, in N. Lat. 31°—thence to the Rio Grande, and up that river to Don Ana, Lat. 33°. But I found it nowhere beyond that point, either near the river or among the hills as far back as the foot of the Sierra de los Mimbres, and I passed up and down between El Paso and Santa Fe at different seasons of the year; yet through all this country I met with the _Blue Partridge_ (C. squamata). The species in question, however, is known to be abundant in the country around the sources of the Gila river. It has also been found along that river, from the Pimo villages to its mouth; and there is no doubt it inhabits the entire valley of the Gila. It was common along the Colorado river, as far up as Camp Yuma (mouth of Gila), and it has been met with in that valley as high up as Yampai creek, N. Lat. 34°, but I have no information of its having been found north of that parallel. “The habits of this species are, in most respects, similar to those of the California Partridge; but it has always appeared to me less vigilant and wild. I was not so fortunate, however, as to discover its nest; nor did I gather from others any information as to its eggs—their colour or their markings. I frequently heard the call or song of the male bird during the period of nesting, which, from some cause or other not apparent to me, was later than that of its congener. As early as June 4th, I found covies of the young of the _California Partridge_ large enough to fly—say one-fourth grown; whilst all the birds of this species (and I saw many,) as late as June 16th, were still without their young. But the voice of the male, as I was about to remark, is, at this season, strikingly rich and full. A very good idea may be formed of his cry by slowly pronouncing, in a low tone, the syllables ‘_kaa-wale_,’ ‘_kaa-wale_.’ These notes, when uttered close at hand, are by no means loud; yet it is perfectly astonishing to what a distance they may be heard when the day is calm and still. There was to me something extremely plaintive in this simple love-song, which I heard for the first time during a day of burning heat passed upon the desert. I had reached the well at _Alamo mucho_ before noon, and had halted to rest my jaded mules after their toilsome march. Here is, in truth, a desert!—figure to yourself, if you can, a portion of this fair earth, where, for some hundreds of miles, the whole crust seems to have been reduced to ashes by the action of internal fires; behold a vast plain of desolation, surrounded, and, at intervals, intersected by abrupt mountain ranges, which are little better than gigantic heaps of scoria; imagine this scenery to be actually glowing under the direct rays of a midsummer sun, and you may have some idea of the prospect that meets the eye of the traveller who looks out upon the desert from the well of the Alamo.