but I was compelled to give them up without finding a bird. The cover was not heavy, and I put this 
down as possibly an instance where they all had escaped by running “like race horses.” 
A short time after, about three inches of snow fell in the night, and in the morning I concluded to 
look after this covey a little further. The dog came to a stand near the same place that I found them 
a few days before. When flushed, they all took their old route, settling close together. I was soon 
there with the dog, and hunted the place over and over, but could not find even a track or imprint in 
the unbroken snow. I now made several circles around the place, to render assurance doubly sure that the 
birds had not run away, and were at the point where I saw them go down. Yes, the evidence became 
conclusive. They were all there within a short distance of each other. This was enough. I walked 
away and remained long enough to quiet their fears, and then returned, and the dog made point after 
point until probably every bird was found, although not one had moved from the spot at which he 
touched the snow-covered ground. 
Quail shooting is the great field sport of the country. It is by far the most exciting, as the bird is 
the most troublesome to follow up and, when flushed, the most difficult to kill. It may have its faults, 
but when restricted by proper legislation, it has its benefits and advantages. While it diminishes the 
aggregate number of birds by subtracting from each covey, it seldom destroys the whole family, and in 
this way insures the preservation of an abundance to propagate another season. Wing shooting also 
draws from the destructive spoils of the pot-hunter and trapper, making the birds coy, suspicious, 
and not easily seen. True, there is a possibility that the sportsman with dog and gun may destroy a 
whole family unintentionally or by accident, for it once fell to my lot to be the author of a chapter of 
this kind. While riding along the road in a buggy with a friend, I discovered my dog on a stand near 
the road fence some distance in front, with nose and tail parallel to the line of fence. As I moved up, 
the birds rose by concert, in lino all along the fence, and I fired at the rear bird and for a few seconds 
saw nothing but smoke, then a wounded bird making his way on foot into a sorghum patch on the 
opposite side of the road. I attempted to intercept his passage but failed, and he escaped into the dense 
cover. Where the other birds were I did not yet know, for the smoke stood at the muzzle so long it 
was impossible to see a feather fall. My friend, who had charge of the conveyance and sat in the buggy, 
declared that every bird fell. I walked over the ground and picked up twelve dead birds ; from the first 
bird to the last the distance was about twenty yards. The next day, on passing the place the dog came 
to a point; not expecting a repetition of the slaughter, I walked up, but no bird flushed. I now moved 
some dead grass, and found the one that had been winged the day before, and which was so badly wounded 
that I killed him as a kindness. Here the whole covey was exterminated; but as I felt sorry for the 
act, did not intend it, and would never do it again, it should not be considered unpardonable. Experi- 
ence, however, sustains the position taken by sportsmen, that the judicious use of the gun merely di- 
minishes by drawing upon the yearly increase, and does not oppose the preservation and healthy propagation 
of these birds. 
Still, if unmolested, they would not, perhaps, under the most favorable circumstances, become in 
excess of their usefulness to the agriculturist. Yet, however plentiful they may be, it seems an inex- 
cusable cruelty to take their lives for either gain or amusement, and I agree with Mr. Herbert: “Were 
I a farmer, I would hang it over my kitchen fireplace, inscribed in goodly capitals — -‘Spare the Quail! 
If you would have clean fields and goodly crops, spare the Quail! So shall you spare your labor.’” 
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