BOB WHITE. 



237 



courageous and bold, -and that he will 

 gather his harem behind him. He stands 

 in the van to defend his spouse and his 

 native heath, as if he realized he was in 

 his house, and everyone's house is his 

 castle. I shall know you, "Rikki tikki 

 tavvi"! You will betray yourself by the 

 bright, shining eyes gleaming like dia- 

 monds, and the tiny, gamy, shapely head, 

 swaying restlessly from side to side; the 

 only moving thing in all that mass of 

 motley. Then I shall see shape, form and 

 the partly drooped wing. There they are! 

 Three Sir Bobs all standing, and the Lady 

 Bobs crouching. And now I jump nerv- 

 ously, for there is a volley of sound and 

 they are gone. 



Lance and Prim come to heel with- 

 out a word and both look up at me. What 

 is so trustful, so beautiful, as the eyes of 

 a setter? Plainly they say, ''Why did you 

 not bring your gun?" I answer as I stroke 

 the silky, shapely heads, 



"I have seen a brave little devil stand 

 up and defend his women and his home, 

 and not to-day do we hunt to kill. For 

 ali that, it shall be good hunting." 



Onward we tramp toward the pines, 

 with the 2 dogs ranging wide. On the 

 slope there are bunches of sumach tha: 

 make the on]-- brilliant autumn tints of 

 red. scarlet, vermillion, brown, green, yel- 

 low and gold that are seen in the Old 

 North State. I watch the dogs working- 

 backward and forward, to and fro, with 

 mathematical precision covering the en- 

 tire field, when this side of a bunch of 

 sumach on a little hillock, as he is about 

 to double on his tracks, Lance stops. 

 That's curious; yet I know he has caught 

 the scent, for it is just the place to look 

 for the birds. Curious because the wind 

 is striking him aslant, blowing down on 

 his shoulder; and as his head comes round 

 to the point he partly forms the letter L. 

 That's grit and blood and skill; for he 

 will not move a hair's breadth till he gets 

 the order to move, yet that neck and head 

 are painfully strained. The birds are just 

 off the sumach. 



"Fie, fie Prim! What are you about 

 that Lance gets all the honors!" I confess 

 it to myself with a little chagrin way down 

 in my heart, for Prim is nearest and dear- 

 est. There you are, down the field where 

 you can not even see Lance. What are 

 you about, galloping like a common 

 hound chasing a hare? I try to whistle 

 and then to shout to prevent the faux pas: 

 to stop her from doing that which will 

 stain her scutcheon; but lip and voice are 

 dumb. I know that afterward she will 

 come shamefacedly enough and ask for- 

 giveness; but there she goes headlong for 

 the other side of the sumach, rounding 

 the hillock, and she will not get the scent 

 until she is right down on the birds. I 



realize that I have no gun and will not 

 lose a shot, but I move farther to see the 

 abasement of Prim. Now she passes out 

 of sight on a bound that will precipitate 

 her on the birds. Ha! No, no! She 

 stops in mid gallop, as it were; stiffens; 

 points; and from tip of flag to nose and 

 thence to bird is a dead line. Marvellous 

 work that. Prim! Involuntarily I clap 

 my hands and the birds rise not a dozen 

 feet from Prim. Lance has not moved! 



Such elation and pride did I have I 

 could scarce restrain myself. As I turned 

 to retrace my steps homeward both dogs 

 dropped back to heel. From time to time 

 Prim stuck her cold nose in my hands, 

 all unnecessarily to remind me of her 

 presence. Aye, Prim! I am thinking of 

 Rip Rap pointing the quail, with the dead 

 bird which he had retrieved in his mouth, 

 and at command flushing the live quaii 

 with the dead Bob White in his jaws. And 

 that achievement of yours may justly rank 

 with his. 



It is getting dusk and across the fields 

 comes the call, "Bob White! Bob White!" 

 and "Bob White!" Wooing, friendly visi- 

 tation; distant calls; good night and prom- 

 ises for the morrow. "Bob White! Bob 

 White!" The liquid notes float melodious- 

 ly through the air. 



' ' The quail 

 Repeats his plaintive whistling note, 

 And softly fall the answering cries 

 That over wood and cornfield float." 



Across the field, through the brown 

 autumn flotsam and golden stubble, the 

 harvest's aftermath, I homeward go with 

 Prim sedately at my side; but Lance, 

 tempted by the whistling quail, with im- 

 pudent liberty breaks away and stops to 

 point. Even then that sagacious chap 

 knows I am not paying any attention, and 

 comes to heel as we go home. Almost at 

 our feet a covey rises with a b-r-r-r and 

 a drum that fit into my pensive mood like 

 choral music. 



To-morrow Lewis will take us to the 

 fields and glades where he marked the 

 coveys. Then we shall flush them in the 

 open fields with easy shots and follow them 

 to the thickets where we can scarcely 

 scramble, for the singles that will test to 

 the uttermost every atom of knowledge, 

 experience and skill! There Bob White 

 has a chance for his life, and his speed and 

 wit will make sad havoc and waste of your 

 shells. No, indeed, not every shot will 

 bring a bird to bag, and your dogs' work 

 will give as much pleasure as the difficult 

 killing shot. If you are late in starting 

 and the birds should have left the feeding 

 places, your luck will be poor. Start be- 

 fore the sun is up and while the dew is 

 yet on the grass. Then the birds arc in 

 the open fields and your shooting will be 

 easiest and afford greatest number of birds. 



