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THE STKANGE ADVENTURES OF A BOB WHITE. 
BY JOHN A. WELLS, M. D. 
# 
The seventeenth day of November, eighteen hundred and 
eighty-three, was one of those rare, hazy and mellow days 
which every sportsman hails with delight. To be anywhere 
but afield on such a day seems a crime almost, and many a 
time that bright morning I consulted my timepiece with a 
view to arranging my business so that at the very least a 
brief hour or two toward sundown might be devoted to my 
beloved recreation. All through the day, with its worries 
and its cares, at intervals there would suddenly arise in my 
mind a bright vision of a certain golden buckwheat stubble 
which, unless I was woefully mistaken in my calculations, 
the lengthening shadows in the west would find tenanted by 
a hungry, busy little family, all eager for supper and even 
willing to risk an interruption from their mortal enemy and 
his terrible dogs, to fill those empty coops. For had they 
not fasted since long before high noon and might not to- 
morrow bring a driving storm and only a scant breakfast in 
the swamp ? It wanted but an hour of sundown when I 
drove up to the door of my house in the village, and very 
little time indeed did it take to toss the old corduroy, with 
a quantum suficit of cartridges in the pockets, under the 
sert, to follow it up with the little Parker gun, unchain the 
barking, eager dogs and with a touch of the whip to old 
Pegasus, drive off. 
A rapid drive of a little over a mile brought me in sight of 
the well-known grounds, but ere I arrived at the bar^ where 
I usually tied, the two dogs dashed at full speed into the 
stubble and there, by Diana herself ! a point already, and I 
not half ready. But no ! they crawled a couple of yards, 
feeling the tainted west wind, blowing full in their noses ; 
the pointer slightly in advance, turned his head, gave me 
one expressive look and dropped as if a cannon ball had 
fallen plump on his back. I knew what that meant, sure 
enough — business and no fooling. Reader, did you ever try 
to get out of a wagon, anchor your horse, change coats and 
put a gun together all at once ? Then you know how I felt 
and how often the combinations ran into each other. Slip- 
ping in a couple of shells as I mounted the fence, I stepped 
quickly up to the motionless dogs and their invisible 
quarry. Then commenced the old “thumpety” “thump” 
“thump” of my heart which twenty years of intimacy with 
pointing dogs and flushing quaiis never seems to quell 
entirely. One step, two steps ahead of the dogs and burr-r- 
r-r-r-r away they went. Twice the little six-pound gun 
barked and let slip the dogs of war and two of the game lit- 
tle beauties came whirling earthward. The rest, panic- 
stricken, sailed over the fence, crossed an orchard and two 
low-lying bog meadows and there they were all down in 
that dense cat-briar thicket just across the alder swamp. 
Gun reloaded, at the word the red setter sprang to retrieve 
the first bird and in a very few seconds he was stowed away 
in that capacious game pocket which has been the tomb of 
many of his family connections. “Fetch dead, good Puck,” 
and the eager pointer bounded to where the victim of the 
left hand barrel fell ; but what ! not there ? wing-tipped only, 
as I am a sinner 1 I exclaimed, and while the good dog did 
not express himself in just so many words he understood 
matters quite as well, and with nose well up and rigid stern 
he rapidly roaded across the stubble and Into an old field, 
grown up with rank weeds, forming its eastern boundary. 
I was almost beginning to feel some alarm as to the mate- 
rial proofs of that rather neat double when suddenly the 
nose swung sharply to the right and pointed directly down- 
ward for a second. There was a very short scuffle and the 
good beast galloped in, proudly arched his neck and walked 
around me ere he handed me the bird, a fine, full plumaged 
cock it was and except for a fracture of the very tip of the 
left wing I could find no scratch on it. Alas ! poor Yorick, 
how that single little number eight pellet changed the 
course of your future life ! I was about to end Bob’s misery 
when one of those strange impulses, with which we are all 
acquainted, seemed to bid me spare that little life. Kind- 
ness I certainly intended it for, but it must be doubted 
whether, in the light of the bird’s future history, the quality 
of mercy was not strained in this instance. My pocket 
handkerchief sufficed to immobilize Bobby’s wings ; a bit of 
twine held the handkerchief in place and a spare pocket in 
my shooting coat made a suitable temporary cage. 
As the sun went down behind the distant Ramapo hills I 
bagged Bobby’s sixth relative. Pegasus was thinking of 
oats and my homeward drive was short. The captive was 
quickly transferred to a roomy cage, with plenty of buck- 
wheat and wheat screenings within reach, and a dark cloth 
thrown over one-half of the cage behind which he could 
hide. At first everything seemed so strange to the little 
fellow that he was loath to reconcile himself to his environ- 
ments, and almost beat his little brains out against the bars ; 
but hunger soon got the better of him and he was not long 
in recognizing me as the purveyor of his meals. After he 
had quieted down I put a fresh sod in his cage and this he 
seemed to prize immensely, scratching the grass and dust- 
ing himself very frequently. All kinds of greens, spinach, 
parsley, lettuce, dandelion and plantain leaves he welcomed 
eagerly. Gradually he became accustomed to the inmates 
of the kitchen, but the presence of the dogs in the kitchen 
at nights for many weeks tried his nerves sorely. But time, 
that great healer, at last ministered to the mind disordered 
as well as to the disordered wing and each day brought .less 
fear until, before many months, I could bring one of those 
great brown muzzles close up to the wires without exciting 
any alarm in the occupant of the cage. Indeed at times I 
thought he rather enjoyed their company, for he would oc- 
casionally strike in a playful way at the dog’s head with his 
bill, peeping the while in the most laughable manner. 
Many and many'a time I left the cage on the floor and not 
for all the rewards which a dog’s kingdom holds would one 
of those dogs oiler to even frighten their little friend. 
It was not many weeks after his capture when, early one 
morning, Robert screwed up his courage to the sticking 
point and electrified us by the long drawn out familiar call 
to assemble the scattered family together. Ever after, while 
he was with us, the rising of the sun or the going down 
thereof was the signal for the plaintive whistle to begin and 
for perhaps half an hour, at frequent intervals, hoping 
against hope it would be reiterated. When at last the long 
bleak Winter was over and gone, and the warm sun of late 
May and early June announced that the season was at band 
when the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
love, nothing daunted by his prison bars, the little fellow 
raised himself to his full height and “Bob White ! bob-bob 
White! ” rang out just as clearly and just as tenderly as if 
his prison floor was a corner fence post and the wished for 
wife was a veritabie Mrs. White, warning those precious 
promises of a coming family in the long grass beneath. 
Summer over, the nights began to sharpen and the maples 
to turn; no more love notes now; only the lovely quoi-e-e-e ! 
quoi-e-e-e! attracted each passerby, for Bob had made 
many friends and many a ripe cherry and strawberry found 
their way to his bread basket through our neighbors’ solici- 
tude. So tame had he become that he would readily take 
a berry from between my lips while I held him in my hand. 
But as the early Autumn advanced to brown November his 
old wild nature and instinct for self preservation returned 
in a measure, and too great liberties on my part were re- 
! sented. It was toward the close of the Summer that, one 
