VIII. ONE TOUCH OF NATURE. 



~~r"!^HE cheery whistle of a quail 

 recalls to most New Eno- 

 <^<'' land people a \ision of breeze- 

 upland pastures and a mot- 

 tled brown bird calling me- 

 lodiously from the topmost 

 slanting rail of an old sheep- 

 fence. Farmers say he fore- 

 tells the weather, calling, 

 I\Iorc-zvct — iuuch-inorc-7vcf ! 

 Boys say he onl)- proclaims 

 his name. Bob White ! Fm 

 Bob White! But whether 

 he prognosticates or introduces himself, his voice is 

 always a welcome one. Those who know the call 

 listen with pleasure, and speedily come to love the 

 bird that makes it. 



Bob White has another call, more beautiful than his 

 boyish whistle, which comparatively few have heard. 

 It is a soft licpiid yodeling, which the male bird uses 



to call the scattered flock together. One who walks 



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