BOB WHITE! 



I'm a game bird, not a song 

 bird with beautiful feathers, 

 flitting all day from tree to tree, 

 but just a plain-looking little 

 body, dressed in sober colors, 

 like a Quaker. 



It wouldn't do for me to wear 

 a red hat, and a green coat, and 

 a yellow vest. Oh, no! that 

 would be very foolish of me, 

 indeed. What a mark I would 

 be for every man and boy who 

 can fire a gun or throw a stone, 

 as I run along the ground in 

 clearings and cultivated fields. 

 That's the reason I wear so plain 

 a coat. At the first glance you 

 would take me for a bunch of 

 dried grass or a bit of earth, but 

 at the first movement, off I go, 

 running for dear life to some 

 thickly wooded cover, where I 

 hide till danger is passed. 



Cute! Yes, I think so. You 

 would have to be sharp, too, if 

 you were a game-bird.' Through 

 the summer we don't have much 

 trouble, but just as soon as cold 

 weather sets in, and our broods 

 have grown to an eatable size, 

 "pop" go the guns, and ''whirr" 

 go our wings as we fly through 

 the air. It is only at such times 

 we take wing, sometimes seek- 

 ing refuge in a tree from our 

 enemies. I'm sorry we are such 

 nice birds — to eat — for really 



we like to stay around farm- 

 houses and barn-yards, eating 

 with the chickens and othei 

 fowl. We are easily tamed, and 

 the farmers often thank us for 

 the injurious insects we eat, and 

 the seeds of weeds. 



How do we know they thank 

 us ? Why, we must know that, 

 when they scatter seed for us 

 on the snow. Kind deeds speak 

 louder than words, for in the 

 winter we suffer a great deal. 

 Sometimes when it is very cold 

 weburrow down under the snow, 

 in snow-houses, as it were, to 

 keep warm. That is risky, 

 though; for when it rains and 

 then freezes over, we are in a 

 trap. A great many Quail die 

 in this way during a hard 

 winter. 



Is Quail another name for 

 Bob White? Yes, but people 

 like Bob White better. Did 

 you ever hear me whistle? If 

 not, come out in the country in 

 the spring, and hear me call to 

 my mate. I sit on a fence rail, 

 and, to let her know where I 

 am, I whistle. Boh White! Boh 

 White! and if she pretends to 

 be bashful, and doesn't answer 

 me at once, I whistle again, Boh, 

 Boh White! Poor Boh White! 

 She takes pity on me then, and 

 comes at my call. 



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