BOB WHITE. 19 



a little spring run, he winds more and more 

 slowly where the horsetails stand tall and gray 

 and the bracken-ferns are rusty and red. Sud- 

 denly he comes to a dead stop, settling low like 

 a crouching cat, with tail quivering at the tip and 

 nose pointed at a clump of ferns a few feet ahead. 

 From the ferns a brown haze of buff and rose- 

 wood colors tipped with a long bill whirls spiral- 

 ly upward through the tree-tops with whistling 

 wing, but not a feather accompanies the little 

 shower of twigs and dead leaves your shot brings 

 down. 



A long trail, wasn't it? But who ever knew a 

 woodcock run that far? 



Old Don answers by going slowly on again, 

 young Frank prowling along with the gravity of 

 a sphinx. Down a long slope, over the bright 

 green leaves and shining red berries of the par- 

 tridge-berry, now with majestic march that 

 shows sublime confidence in the outcome, now 

 with the slow caution of a circus elephant walk- 

 ing over his keeper, now with a bit of wavering 

 that shows the game far ahead, but still with no 

 lack of faith, old Don leads, with Frank still 

 creeping in the rear. 



