BOB WHITE. 



E. J. MYERS. 



I looked around the room. My shoot- 

 ing clothes hung on the chair and my 

 shoes lay on the floor. There were shells 

 and guns; 16 and 20 gauge for the quails 

 and the 10 bore for ducks and turkeys. 

 These latter only if I should be lucky. 

 Turkey shooting is not much to my liking 

 now. The early rising and cramped 

 crouching behind logs; burying oneself in 

 the autumn leaves; the long, dreary 

 tramps; the wearisome vigils that excite 

 the arch enemies, gout and rheumatism; 

 all these check me. In fact, I am getting 

 rather stiff; don't say old. 



But quail shooting is luxurious sport, 

 in bright, sunny weather that does not 

 hazard life or health, but conduces to the 

 lengthening of days; in company with a 

 companion who does not fill the sports- 

 man's soul with envy, be he ever so gen- 

 erous, but helps to point out the game 

 and save the quarry. Down lanes and 

 roads it leads, across open fields and 

 through woody glades where the birds 

 flit like phantoms or meteors, with a beat 

 of wings, a roar and a rush of wind that 

 shakes the nerve and tries the sight and 

 trigger. Steady must be the hand, cool 

 the head and accustomed to his tricks must 

 be he who wants to bag Bob White! Now 

 the birds scatter in singles and quarter to 

 the 4 corners of the globe; now they go 

 straight before you faster than gale 

 that blows across Hatteras' sands, and 

 then they seem to fly at your very face. 

 They are all around you with a roar like 

 that of a railroad train, and both barrels 

 go off somehow or other; but you don't 

 get a bird with either. 



Over there lies old Moravian Salem, 

 where the frost scarcely falls, to shake the 

 last cluster of grapes shriveling on the 

 dead and sere vine! Beyond lies High 

 Point and nearest the old farm house is 

 Monroeton; but all around me stretches 

 the demesne of Bob White, Ortyx virgin- 

 ianus! High bred, shapely to perfection, 

 beautiful of plumage, keen sighted and 

 sharp witted, nervous and spunky. 



The "Rikki tikki tavvi " of the Field ! 



Through the window I can see the fields 

 of stubble and straw, the aftermath of the 

 grain, and the long furrows with their 

 lines of withered corn stalks to which 

 cling the lima bean vines, dried and sere. 

 There I know the quail love to abide. 

 Down the furrows must the bead draw 

 quick, fast must the shot go, or naught 



but shattered stems fall and tassels fly in 

 the wind from the scattering shot. Farther 

 on in the landscape, climbing up to the 

 sky line, are the scrub pines; and on the 

 slopes which they crown are sumachs, 

 ablaze with autumnal glories. 



Down stairs my welcome is warm from 

 Lewis, who scarce has time to say, "Rose 

 18 coveys yesterday and marked them for 

 you," when a boisterous and clamorous 

 barking gives me a welcome that sends 

 the blood tingling through my veins. 



"Loose them, John;" and Prima Donna, 

 of royal birth — none queenlier in all set- 

 terdom — and Lance, her son, are fawning 

 on me and kissing my hand. Never, but 

 I suppose you know it already, let a dog 

 jump on you; especially a hunting dog. 

 Some day it might set off a gun, and 

 then 



"Well, Prim, shall we pay Mr. Bob 

 White a visit? Eh, Lance, suppose we 

 make a sort of reconnoissance on 'Rikki 

 tikki tavvi'; a sort of ceremonious call; 

 something of a notice that we shall move 

 on him to-morrow in force, eh! Oh, Prim., 

 I have travelled all the way from Gotham 

 to Monroeton for this outing among the 

 quails; just to have all sorts of pleasure; 

 long walks with my dogs, forgetting work 

 and labor and all my worries, and seek- 

 ing health and vigor in tiresome tramps 

 after the quails. Peaceful and lazy ram- 

 bles through the stubble and broom where 

 the golden grain has waved, marking 

 where the quails made their resting and 

 feeding places; through the long, ghostly 

 ranks of plumed cornstalks whose broad- 

 sword blades and maize now fill the rick 

 and bin. Along the hedges made by zig- 

 zag rails and now straightened by the 

 underbrush; up the hills among the 

 resinous Carolina pines; down through 

 glades of laurel and the marshy bottoms 

 where the thickets are densest, whither the 

 quails take refuge when the guns bark too 

 often. There the persimmons and acorns 

 litter the ground, and now and then a 

 stray woodcock will rise and flit through 

 the woods unless you have the wit and the 

 skill to stop him." 



Yesterday in New York, and to-day 

 afield, with all the beauties, luxuries and 

 comforts of the Old Dominion steamers 

 to make the trip an incident of pleasure! 

 The sun is warm and the air is mild, for 

 November days are naught in Carolina 

 save the balmiest of Indian summer 

 weather. 



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