In the Christmas Woods. 



Coming up the trail toward daylight, for it has 

 grown dark in the canon, I meet a flock of quail, 

 beautiful creatures, that survey me fearlessly as I 

 pass. I hope no Christmas pot hunter will find 

 them and carry them home, a trophy of his day's 

 sport. How any human being who has ever seen 

 a flock of quail in all their living, alert beauty, can 

 take pleasure in picking the poor little bones 

 of the slaughtered birds is another of the mysterious 

 things of life. I came, some time ago, with a party 

 of trampers, to an open space amid the chaparral, 

 on the crest of a chain of hills. Suddenly the 

 leader of our group motioned silence and stood, 

 with parted lips and smiling, delighted eyes, gazing 

 at a flock of quail quietly making their way through 

 the grass, with glossy feathers stirring in the breeze 

 and crested heads held fearlessly high. 



"Did you ever see anything more beautiful?" 

 whispered their discoverer ; but the Nimrod of the 

 party wrung his weaponless hands and wailed : 



* * What a shot ! Oh, what a shot ! ' ' 



Verily, that first man went down to his house 

 justified, rather than the other. 



16 



