BOB-WHITE 
Bop-wuiteE, unlike the majority of our birds, does not migrate 
southward in winter; the whole covey, unless they are killed, spend 
the whole year near the spot where they were born, feeding on the 
fallen grain, seeds, and various kinds of fruit. In hard winters, they 
become very tame, and if fed regularly, come to the barnyard almost 
like poultry. Most people are only too familiar with this bird, but 
not as he looks in life. Then he is full of energy and spirit; his 
pure white throat shows against the black of his head, and _ his 
rich reddish brown wings are ready to carry him off with a whirr 
that startles one. For one that we see alive, we see a thousand 
hanging, bloody and bedraggled, in the markets. Few people who 
become really acquainted with Bob-white, who see him sitting on a 
stone wall calling his name, or see his mate hurrying her little 
ones over the road into the blackberry vines, will care to make 
another meal off his little body. We must consider not only the 
wrong, if we acknowledge it to be one, done to the individual quail 
whose life has been taken, but the danger that threatens his whole 
race. The cheerful Bob-white is already a much rarer sound than 
it used to be, and the bird has many other dangers to contend 
against besides the pot-hunter’s gun. 
The greatest peril that besets quail in the North is the occa- 
sional midwinter blizzard, followed by intense cold. The quail at 
night huddle close together on the ground, their tails touching and 
their heads pointing out in a circle. After a great storm in a 
recent winter, the melting snow exposed a circle of quail, surprised 
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