BOB WHITE. 17 



thing from near where the first one should have 

 fallen, how your heart swelled with pride ! But 

 when he vanished in the direction the other 

 bird had taken, and the pattering of his feet on 

 the dead leaves slowly ceased, and for a moment 

 all was still, and then in joyous gallop he re- 

 turned with a dead bird and laid it in your hand, 

 you felt you had not lived in vain. Foolish 

 feelings, perhaps ; but the best of our race have 

 yielded to their soft sway, and dear little Bob 

 White has brought more rest to the business- 

 wearied soul, more new life to tired humanity, 

 than nearly all other American game combined. 

 In his sweet presence you feel a contempt for 

 '' trophies," for game that some Indian has to 

 call up to you, or a guide row you up to. Mere 

 trash is all game too big to handle, beside this 

 little beauty that fills but a corner of your pocket. 

 On no other bird does the sportsman's best 

 companion so delight his soul with noble work. 

 Years cannot blot the memory of the long trail 

 old Don made on that November morning when 

 the covey you had found on the stubble and driven 

 into the wood had become too widely scattered 

 for farther hunting. About the time you had 



