Bob IVhite, the Game Bird of America. 673 



sports, that I must here quote them ; especially as the writings of W. 

 P. Hawes ("J. Cypress, Jr.") are now rarely met with. He says: 



"If you would see the purest, the sincerest, the most affecting piety of a parent's 

 love, startle a family of young quails and watch the conduct of the mother. She will 

 not leave you. No, not she. But she will fall at your feet, uttering a noise which none 

 but a distressed mother can make, and she will run, and flutter, and seem to try to be 

 caught, and cheat your outstretched hand, and affect to be wing-broken and wounded, 

 and yet have just strength to tumble along, until she has drawn you, fatigued, a safe 

 distance from her threatened children and the hopes of her young heart ; and then 

 she will mount, whirring with glad strength, and away through the maze of trees you 

 had not seen before, like a close-shot bullet, fly to her skulking infants. Listen, now ! 

 Do you hear those three half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out ? She is 

 calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now ' Bob White!' nor 'Ah! Bob 

 White!' That is her husband's love-call, or his trumpet-blast of defiance. But she 

 calls sweetly and softly for her lost children. Hear them ' Peep ! peep ! peep ! ' at the 

 welcome voice of their mother's love ! They are coming together. Soon the whole 

 family will meet again. It is a foul sin to disturb them ; but retread your devious way, 

 and let her hear your coming footsteps breaking down the briers as you renew the dan- 

 ger. She is quiet. Not a word is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you 

 have the heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the hen-quail. Oh, 

 mother, mother ! How your heart would die if you could witness the deception ! The 

 little ones raise up their trembling heads and catch comfort and imagined safety from 

 the sound. ' Peep ! peep ! ' They are coming to you, straining their little eyes and 

 clustering together, and, answering, seem to say : ' Where is she ? Mother ! mother ! 

 We are here!'" 



The following is by Henry William Herbert (" Frank For- 

 rester") : 



"Unlike the young broods of the woodcock, which are mute, save the twitter with 

 which they rise, the bevies of quail appear to be attached to each other by tender affec- 

 tion. If dispersed by accidental causes, either in the pursuit of their food, or from being 

 flushed by some casual intruder, so soon as their first alarm has passed over, they begin 

 calling to each other with a small, plaintive note, quite different from the amorous whis- 

 tle of the male bird and from their merry, day-break cheeping, and each one running 

 toward the sound, and repeating it at intervals, they soon collect themselves together 

 into one happy little family. 



" If, however, the ruthless sportsman has been among them with his well-trained 

 setter and unerring gun, so that death has sorely thinned their numbers, they will pro- 

 tract their little call for their lost comrades even to night-fall ; and in such cases — I 

 know not if it be fancy on my part — there has often seemed to me to be an unusual 

 degree of melancholy in their wailing whistle. 



" Once this struck me especially. I had found a small bevy of thirteen birds in an 

 orchard, close to the house in which I was passing a portion of the autumn, and in a 

 very few minutes killed twelve of them, for they lay hard in the tedded clover, and it 



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