BOB WHITE. 23 



Where the prairie merges into timber in a line 

 of rolling hills well covered with hazel this bird 

 is most at home when the frost has tattered the 

 proud banners of the hills. Down in the little 

 swale where the rich pink of the rose mallow but 

 lately glowed, and the faded petals still cling to 

 the gray stem, the bevy, shaded by the hazel 

 from the winds, lies basking in the sun. A gay 

 whirl and roar they make as they spin away 

 among the dead stalks from which the deep 

 purple of the petalostemon so lately beamed, or 

 vanish in the haze made by the numerous buds 

 of the hazel. Then in the long, dead grass that 

 twines about the hazel-roots they lie almost like 

 stones, taxing the dogs' keenest nose to find 

 them. And though mostly open shooting over 

 the top of the brush, it is none too easy to clip 

 the buzzing wing that often twists and dodges 

 long enough to confuse you, or comes out of the 

 brush far enough away to make quick work 

 necessary and then, laughing at your slowness, 

 spins down the prairie gale at a pace that leaves 

 your shot behind again. 



In Minnesota and Wisconsin, after his little 

 fit of wandering in large droves is over, Bob 



