QUAIL SHOOTING. 189 



score of years, and yet, as I gaze fondly, admiringly, at 

 the birds, I can distinctly recall happy hours spent 

 among them. Time does not dim, but rather adds, to 

 the memory of the past, and childhood's days arise be- 

 fore me so clear, indeed the happiest of them all, when 

 I pursued these birds with hickory bow and feathered 

 arrows. 



WHEN THE FROST is ON THE MEADOWS. 



When the golden summer 's over, 



And a chill is in the air, 

 And the fields of wheat and clover, 



Are brown, and bleak, and bare, 

 Then the hunter seeks his pointer, 



Who comes bounding to his call, 

 For the frost is on the meadows 



And the leaves begin to fall. 



Through the meadows and the tangle, 



And the woods along their sides, 

 Where the purple wild grapes dangle, 



We walk with sturdy strides, 

 And we listen, almost breathless, 



To the scattered covey's call, 

 For the frost is on the meadows, 



And the leaves begin to fall. 



"What do you scent, old fellow? 



Ah! steady now; take care." 

 A twittering so mellow, 



Then a quail whirls through the air. 

 A shot, ' ' Go fetch him. Steady, 



Or you will flush them all," 

 For the frost is on the meadows 



And the leaves begin to fall. 



Don't talk of city pleasures, 



The joy that money yields; 

 Keep all your vaunted treasures, 



Give me the broad, brown fields. 

 The pleasures one can gather, 



Can't be had at rout or ball, 

 When the frost is on the meadows, 



And the leaves begin to fall. 



F. M. GILBERT. 



