BOB WHITE. 13 



chains of business to hold one when the pearly 

 scales of the everlasting rustle in the fall winds 

 and the persimmon is reddening among its half- 

 bare branches, when the jingling note of the jay 

 in the russet of the white oak is nearly all that 

 remains of the late music of the woods, and the 

 crimson of the cardinal grosbeak the last flash of 

 brilliant life. 



What bright oases on the desert of existence 

 were those mornings when the hoar-frost sparkled 

 on the buckwheat-stubble with the dogs in roll- 

 ing canter sniffing the bracing air ! The squeal 

 of the highholder or mournful piping of the 

 robin, the flitting gray of some belated song- 

 sparrow, the tender twittering of waxwings flirt- 

 ing their golden edgings and long topknots in 

 the dark cedar, and the dull Chuck of some lone 

 blackbird hastening south above our heads, all 

 cast a saddening influence around the dying year. 

 Yet we never felt so full of gladsome life, hearts 

 never beat with higher expectations, and dogs 

 never showed more sparkling eyes. We knew 

 the shortest stubble could hold dozens of the 

 dear little quails within a few feet of us, and only 

 the keen nose of the dog could tell us of their 



