WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 



on the river bank. He said in fifteen minutes after I left, the old 

 Quail were about whistling and calling until they collected their 

 entire brood. 



I was sorry to miss that. I think a Quail call, the Bob White 

 whistle, beautiful. It is mellow, musical, inflected to a nicety, 

 and it is always so cheerful and happy. I like Quail love-mak- 

 ing, too; those soft, tender little wisps of sound, those creeps 

 and peeps and gently-murmured things. In fact, the only note 

 a Quail makes which I don't like is his alarm-cry, and I dislike to 

 hear that from any bird. 



I am sorry our legislators do not put Quail among song birds. 

 Their plumage is much handsomer than some of our choicest 

 singers; they are graceful and elegant on foot, and their music 

 every one knows and loves. Only a note shorter and only a degree 

 less melodious than the Lark, which is of finer flavor as food ; yet 

 the soul sickens at the thought of such sacrilege in the case of the 

 Lark, why not the Quail also? 



I love these two birds and I always think of them together. 

 They use the breast of earth in common in the business of living. 

 The notes of their songs are syllabicated the clearest and enunci- 

 ated the purest of any of our singers. But the Lark is the bird of 

 Heaven, the Quail is of the very earth. Soaring above cloud, the 

 Lark seems to catch the breath of divine inspiration in his notes 

 that enthralls and uplifts the spirit. Keeping close to the dark 

 earth, the Quail draws from it strength and courage, which so 

 tinctures his tones as to renew hope and cheer in our tired hearts 

 and set them singing with him. 



"Bob, Bob White! Bob, Bob White!" How beautifully it 

 pipes up from meadow-grass and clover! How it softens and 

 quivers with the passion of mating! How it swells and rings 



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