THE QUAIL 



PhotO by F. A. KINSEY, M.D. 



QJJA I L 



By HAMMOND KENDRICK SCHOFIELD 



Out from the stubble the quail's sweet call 



Frosty morns of the dreamy fall 



Floats o'er the fields to me. 



No song of Siren is half so sweet 



Luring away unwary feet : 



Song of the quail so free ! 



Then to the fields with autumn brown, 

 Silvered by frost and kissed by sun, 

 Out to the hunt I go. 

 Eagerly watching the dogs to hear 

 Whirring wings when the birds rise clear 

 Up from the brush below. 



Firing, I see the smoke-mist rise, 

 Veiling a moment the well-won prize : 

 Then is my joy supreme! 

 Happy am I tho' gold I've none ; 

 Happy am I with my dogs and gun : 

 Happy to idly dream. 



Duty, I say, to the winds then fling; 

 Business at best is a senseless thing : 

 Worries it brings to you ! 

 Shut in your office your trials and care ; 

 Go to the fields — for rest is there : 

 Years of this life are few. 

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