Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the Don, north of Toronto. His was
what Greek philosophy would have demonstrated to be an ideal existence.
He had no wealth, no taxes, no social pretensions, and no property to
speak of. His life was made up of a very little work and a great deal
of play, with as much outdoor life as he chose. He considered himself
a true sportsman because he was 'fond o' huntin',' and 'took a sight o'
comfort out of seein' the critters hit the mud, when his gun was fired.
The neighbors called him a squatter, and looked on him merely as an
anchored tramp. He shot and trapped the year round, and varied his game
somewhat with the season perforce, but had been heard to remark he could
tell the month by the 'taste o' the partridges,' if he didn't happen to
know by the almanac. This, no doubt, showed keen observation, but was
also unfortunate proof of something not so creditable. The lawful season
for murdering partridges began September 15th, but there was nothing
surprising in Cuddy's being out a fortnight ahead of time. Yet he
managed to escape punishment year after year, and even contrived to pose
in a newspaper interview as an interesting character.
He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot his birds, which was not
easy to do when the leaves were on, and accounted for the brood in the
third ravine going so long unharmed; but the near prospect of other
gunners finding them now, had stirred him to go after 'a mess o' birds.'
He had heard no roar of wings when the mother-bird led off her four
survivors, so pocketed the two he had killed and returned to the shanty.
The little grouse thus learned that a dog is not a fox, and must
be differently played; and an old lesson was yet more deeply
graven--'Obedience is long life.'
The rest of September was passed in keeping quietly out of the way of
gunners as well as some old enemies. They still roosted on the long
thin branches of the hardwood trees among the thickest leaves, which
protected them from foes in the air; the height saved them from foes on
the ground, and left them nothing to fear but coons, whose slow, heavy
tread on the timber boughs never failed to give them timely warning. But
the leaves were falling now--every month its foes and its food. This
was nut time, and it was owl time, too. Barred owls coming down from
the north doubled or trebled the owl population. The nights were getting
frosty and the coons less dangerous, so the mother changed the place of
roosting to the thickest foliage of a hemlock-tree.
Only one of the brood disregarded the warning 'Kreet, kreet.' He stuck
to his swinging elm-bough, now nearly naked, and a great yellow-eyed owl
bore him off before morning.
Mother and three young ones now were left, but they were as big as she
was; indeed one, the eldest, he of the chip, was bigger. Their ruffs
had begun to show. Just the tips, to tell what they would be like when
grown, and not a little proud they were of them.
The ruff is to the partridge what the train is to the peacock--his chief
beauty and his pride. A hen's ruff is black with a slight green gloss.
A cock's is much larger and blacker and is glossed with more vivid
bottle-green. Once in a while a partridge is born of unusual size
and vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but by a peculiar kind of
intensification is of a deep coppery red, iridescent with violet, green,
and gold. Such a bird is sure to be a wonder to all who know him, and
the little one who had squatted on the chip, and had always done what
he was told, developed before the Acorn Moon had changed, into all
the glory of a gold and copper ruff--for this was Redruff, the famous
partridge of the Don Valley.