Qaail Shooting in North Carolina 



One that loves quails. 



— Tboilus and Ceessida. 



In a lone car, hitched to the end of a freight train, 

 sat two individuals — a fellow-sport and myself — tak- 

 ing a trip through the " land of moonshine and fried 

 things," in search of quail. 



The train halted at a small station, some twenty- 

 five miles from Greensboro, where a wagon should 

 have been in waiting to carry us on our way to a 

 tobacco plantation seven miles distant. 



It was " the top o' the morning " when we stepped 

 out on the platform, and a very frosty " top " it was, 

 too. No vehicle was there to meet us, nor was there 

 any in sight, or out of it, that could be hired for love 

 or money. Our only resource, therefore, was to stand 

 and shiver and "wait for the wagon." An hour 

 passed and we began to think it had no intention of 

 coming; but just as our last drop of patience was 

 about oozing out, the wagon arrived drawn by a pair 

 of mules, and driven by an old man whom we soon 

 found to be a fellow of infinite gab, if not " of most 

 excellent fancy." He had two companions seated be- 

 hind him, one of them being his son — an overgrown 



hobbledehoy of fourteen — whose name was Tom. 



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