BOB WHITE. 27 



thickets of crab-apple after them, scratched your 

 way through the scrub-oak, tore through briers, 

 and toiled up the hillside as eagerly as you 

 would for the largest of game. 



Alas, the days that are no more ! Time plies 

 his w^hizzing wing, and already dear Bob is with 

 many older sportsmen but a memory of the past. 

 But what a tender memory it is ! As many a 

 day we hunted him without a gun, and felt re- 

 warded for miles of travel with the sound of his 

 buzzing wing, so now we have to hunt in 

 memory's field, and in the recollection of his 

 winsome ways find more pleasure than in the 

 actual pursuit of what the world deems nobler 

 game. Farewell, dear Bob ; for me, at least, 

 thou hast made life worth the living; and when 

 in the Happy Hunting-grounds my eyes open to 

 the morning light, of all the bright company I 

 there shall hope to see, to thee, dear Bob, the 

 first of all, they'll turn ; yes, first of all to thee. 



