BOB WHITE. 21 



Don, finally brings it to you and then resumes 

 his place in the procession. 



Fifty yards more and Don stops, tosses up his 

 nose a few times with dainty sniffs of the breeze, 

 looks around at you with a tremendous mingling 

 of importance and satisfaction, and then waddles 

 slowly on again. A few yards more and he 

 stops as if carved of stone. Then his tail begins 

 to waver, he raises his nose again, then, creeping 

 a few feet, he stops at the crest of a little knoll, 

 and from the patches of briers on the other side 

 comes at last, on your approach, that burst of buz- 

 zing quail-wings that you have so longed to hear. 



The habits of Bob White in the West differ a 

 little from those of his brethren on the Atlantic 

 shores, but he is still the same lovely bird. After 

 he recovers from his crazy spell in the first days 

 of Indian Summer, when he gathers in droves, 

 runs into town, and sometimes bumps his head 

 against some building in his swift flight, he 

 separates again into coveys ; and though he rarely 

 lies so closely as in the East, he makes fine shoot- 

 ing. The hedges of Osage orange used to be 

 his favorite hiding-place on the prairie. With 

 the dog to the leeward, two persons could have 



