The jay likes to have his home near the water, and when you go near it, he comes out and scolds loudly. But now we will turn from birds which make their homes in trees, and look a little at birds that live on the ground. You will at once think of the barn-yard fowls, and their many cousins. Have you seen a barn-yard full of these birds? It is a fine sight. There are the spotted guinea fowls with their fretful cry, and the great peacocks spreading their splendid trains. There are the black, white, yellow, spotted, red, and green-breasted cocks and hens, and there are pheasants which seem to be dressed in rainbows. Among these fowls the turkey struts, spreading his tail like a wheel, and scraping the tips of his wings on the ground, as he walks high on his toes. Far out in the Western woods, you may see the wild turkey, which is nearly as fine a bird as a pheasant or a peacock. Turkey hens are very good mothers. They seem very fond of their little ones, and are always on the watch to guard them. By nature they are shy birds, and like to run away, and hide their nests. One will go off and hide a nest, and seem very proud to come back with a train of fifteen or more little ones. Grouse, partridges, and quails, are ground-living birds, related to our common fowls. So are the pretty prairie-hens of the West. The quail is a dear little bird. Sometimes in the winter, when the snow is deep, and it cannot find food, it will come to the barn-yard or the door-step, and feed with the fowls. Once, in the woods, I came softly to an opening, and there were about twenty quails feeding on a bed of squaw-berries. They ran about picking up berries and making happy little sounds, like a band of children enjoying a holiday. One day I was going through a pine-wood path, when a mother quail and ten little ones ran across the roadway. She hid in the brush, and began to call, “Come! Come! Come!” and from the other side of the path, little squeaks replied, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Soon three more brown, fluffy balls ran across the road. Then out ran the little brown mother in great distress. Her neck feathers stood out in a collar. “Come! come! come!” she called. “Wee! wee! wee!” said a little faint voice, and tumbling along the foot path, went one more small bird. “Now she has them all,” I thought. But still, out of the brush, the anxious mother cried, “Come! come!” and at last, dropping into ruts, rolling in the dust, too new and weak even to say, “Wee,” hardly able to keep on his legs, went the tiniest little bird! He followed his mother’s voice, and slipped in among the brush and pine needles. When the little brown mother had all her brood, she made a sweet, low, glad note in her hiding place. “O Mrs. Quail!” I cried; “can you count? Can you count fifteen?” She never told me whether she could or not. But she had counted fifteen that time, that was sure.