QUAIL IN WINTER. 



A. JESSUP. 



The most trying season of the year for 

 " Bob White " is in midwinter, when there 

 is heavy snow. If a thick, icy crust forms, 

 every covey in the region will sometimes 

 be caught beneath it and frozen to death. 

 At this time the flesh of the quail is dark 

 and bitter, from feeding on laurel shrubs 

 and evergreens. The birds become very 

 tame in severe weather, and will visit farm- 

 houses and barnyards in search of food. 

 No true sportsman kills them in such con- 

 dition, but the pot hunter, who rarely at- 

 tempts to shoot them on the wing, is too 

 apt to get out his old musket and deal 

 slaughter among the defenceless creatures. 

 If he finds them in their favorite position, 

 huddled up, heads together, in a small ex- 

 cavation in the snow, a single well — or 

 rather ill — aimed shot' will kill or maim 

 most of them, leaving the remainder to 

 scatter and be frozen. 



In the sportsman's code there is no 

 crime so heinous as shooting a quail before 

 it has taken wing. You may claim that 

 every bird your companion shoots has 

 fallen to your gun, thereby making yourself 

 very unpleasant, and still be able to live it 

 down, and become an honorable man. 

 You may even take the shot, when a single 

 bird has flown across another man's ter- 

 ritory, and be reluctantly excused on the 

 ground of excitement and inadvertence. 

 But the sporting reputation of the man 

 who will fire at a bird sitting on the 

 ground, where a child could hit it, is irre- 

 trievably and deservedly blasted, and bur- 

 ied without benefit of clergy. 



Not that the chance often offers itself for 

 such disgrace; for there is nothing more 

 remarkable about the quail, than the al- 

 most incredible faculty nature has be- 

 stowed upon it of becoming invisible, in 

 a way that suggests magic. So exactly do 

 the cream and gray and brown of the 

 bird's markings harmonize with the sur- 

 rounding colors of its haunts, that one may 

 stand within a yard of a covey, in compara- 

 tively open ground, and be unable to dis- 

 tinguish their dusky, crouching forms. A 

 hunter could give numberless instances of 

 this faculty which would seem incredible 

 to those who have not an intimate ac- 

 quaintance with the birds. 



The only man I ever saw who could see 

 coveys that the dogs were pointing, was a 

 laconic, eagle-eyed, red-haired pot hunter, 

 in the Pennsylvania mountains. After the 



manner of his cult, he hunted in any way 

 that would take most meat to market, and 

 always tried for a sitting shot with the first 

 barrel, except when we were along to 

 taboo the practice. His dog was exceed- 

 ingly steady and patient in standing game, 

 and old Roger would peer carefully until 

 he caught sight of the black and white 

 stripings on the necks and heads of the 

 brightly plumaged cock-birds. Then the 

 wretch would back off to shooting distance 

 and send in his murderous shot. 



Owing to such vandalism, increasing 

 each year as the markets offer higher in- 

 ducements to the professional gunner, the 

 call of the quail is becoming rarer in many 

 districts where they formerly abounded. 

 There is some saving tendency in the game 

 associations that are being formed through 

 the country, especially in New York and 

 Connecticut, for the enforcement of the 

 laws. 



The people who have sufficient inter- 

 est in the subject to take active part in 

 the work reside, however, in places where 

 the birds are already hopelessly thinned 

 out. Moreover, they can do nothing with 

 the pot hunter, who hunts on Sunday in 

 the depths of the woods, and who generally 

 has more or less local sentiment in his 

 favor. 



When quail shooting is conducted in a 

 sportsmanlike manner, it aids in the pres- 

 ervation of the birds. Hawks, foxes, and 

 other of their deadly enemies are kept 

 down by the hunters, and killing a half- 

 dozen quails from a flock will not exter- 

 minate it, as the bird is very prolific. In 

 some spots, remote from markets, the gen- 

 tlemen of the region have shot constantly 

 for over half a century, yet the birds are 

 actually increasing. 



The " using-grounds " of the coveys are 

 generally known by the farmer who is fond 

 of shooting, and in winter he scatters 

 " tailings " — a poor quality of wheat — 

 where the starving quail can find it. 



In the last hard winter I struck up an 

 acquaintance, through this means, with 2 

 coveys on a bleak Maryland hillside. It 

 was really a hard matter for me to hunt 

 that ground the next autumn, though they 

 were again invisible, and as wild as deer, 

 until another gunner began to cut into 

 them; then I felt that patience had ceased 

 to be # a virtue, and with some pangs of 

 conscience followed his example. 



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