BOB-WHITE 



Bob-white, unlike the majority of our birds, does not migrate 

 southward in winter; the whole covey, unless they are killed, spend 

 the whole year near the spot where they were born, feeding on the 

 fallen grain, seeds, and various kinds of fruit. In hard winters, they 

 become very tame, and if fed regularly, come to the barnyard almost 

 like poultry. Most people are only too familiar with this bird, but 

 not as he looks in life. Then he is full of energy and spirit; his 

 pure white throat shows against the black of his head, and his 

 rich reddish brown wings are ready to carry him off with a whirr 

 that startles one. For one that we see alive, we see a thousand 

 hanging, bloody and bedraggled, in the markets. Few people who 

 become really acquainted with Bob-white, who see him sitting on a 

 stone wall calling his name, or see his mate hurrying her little 

 ones over the road into the blackberry vines, will care to make 

 another meal off his little body. We must consider not only the 

 wrong, if we acknowledge it to be one, done to the individual quail 

 whose life has been taken, but the danger that threatens his whole 

 race. The cheerful Bob-white is already a much rarer sound than 

 it used to be, and the bird has many other dangers to contend 

 against besides the pot-hunter's gun. 



The greatest peril that besets quail in the North is the occa- 

 sional midwinter blizzard, followed by intense cold. The quail at 

 night huddle close together on the ground, their tails touching and 

 their heads pointing out in a circle. After a great storm in a 



recent winter, the melting snow exposed a circle of quail, surprised 



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