Its flight is rapid, but heavier and more noisy than that of the Common Partridge. It is less patient of cold, and less able to elude the attacks of birds of prey. It is quite a terrestrial bird, very slow in taking flight, and never perching except when hard pressed, when, on rare occasions, it takes refuge among the thick branches of an oak or pinaster; here it considers itself safe, and watches the movements of the dogs with apparent unconcern. Sometimes, too, when closely hunted, it takes shelter in a rabbit's burrow or the hole of a tree; but under ordinary circumstances it runs rapidly before the dogs, and frequently disappoints the sportsman by rising out of shot. The Grey or Common Partridge frequents rich cultivated lands; the Red Partridge prefers uncultivated plains, 'which summer converts into burning causeways, winter into pools of water--monotonous _landes_, where skeletons of sheep pasture without variation on heath and the dwarf prickly genista. It delights, too, in bushy ravines, or the steep sides of rocky hills covered with holly, thorns, and brambles; and when it resorts to vineyards, it selects those situated on the sides of steep slopes, where marigolds and coltsfoot are the principal weeds, rabbits and vipers the most abundant animals.'[43] Red Partridges are consequently most numerous in the least cultivated districts of France, especially those between the Cher and the Loire, and between the Loire and the Seine. Towards the east they do not extend beyond the hills of Epernay, and do not cross the valley of the Meuse. The flesh of the Red Partridge is considered inferior to that of the Grey, and the bird itself is less esteemed by sportsmen as an object of pursuit. In England it seems to retain its natural taste of preferring bushy heaths to inclosed land. In the mode of incubation and rearing the young the two species are much alike.
'This species', says a French naturalist, 'is probably the most productive of all winged creatures; and it could not well be otherwise, or it would be unable to withstand the war of extermination declared against it by human beings and birds of prey. One may get an idea of the prodigious number of victims which the simple crossing of the Mediterranean costs the species by two well-known and often quoted facts. The Bishop of Capri, a wretched islet scarcely a league in length, which lies at the entrance of the Bay of Naples, used to clear a net revenue of 25,000 francs a year (£1,000) by his Quails. This sum represents 160,000 Quails at the lowest computation. In certain islands of the Archipelago, and parts of the coast of the Peloponnese, the inhabitants, men and women, have no other occupation during two months of the year than that of collecting the Quails which are showered on them from heaven, picking and cleaning them, _salting them_ ('they spread them all abroad for themselves') and packing them away in casks for transportation to the principal markets of the Levant; that is to say, the migration of Quails is to this part of Greece what the migration of herrings is to Holland and Scotland. The Quail-catchers arrive at the shore a fortnight in advance, and every man numbers his ground to avoid disputes. The Quail arrives in France from Africa early in May, and takes its departure towards the end of August.'