The Coming- 
of the Quail. 
(251) THE BIRD WORLD. 
Such sacrificial groves are to be 
found all down the coast, for tradi¬ 
tion dies hard. Ours is a delight¬ 
ful retreat, wedged in between hoary 
olive trees and a pine copse, but open 
south and north to the sea, for we are 
on the narrow neck of a small penin¬ 
sula. The grove is planted with 
cypresses and flowering shrubs, shading 
a delightful grass plot, shelving down 
to a shallow masoned basin. It is the 
haunt of birds of all kinds. We can 
watch them at play, at their sober meals 
and their concerts, if we conceal our¬ 
selves in a little bower. It is a cun¬ 
ningly-contrived place of observation on 
the south side of the grove. You enter 
a shallow hole in the ground, bowing 
your head to avoid the overhanging 
branches of the ring of closely planted 
hedge. Round about you find a com¬ 
fortable earthen bench. Here, in peace 
and at ease, you, unseen, can watch the 
feathered comedies and tragedies. 
There are few, alas! who care about 
the comedies ; it is the tragedies in 
which the poetic bower plays its part 
that have most attraction. The dan 
cing-plot and pond are visited well-nigh 
throughout the day. In the cool of the 
morning, just before the break of day, 
the song of birds is deafening; gradu¬ 
ally the feathered hosts flutter down to 
the grass, pecking for food, bowing and 
love-making, and as the sun gradually 
penetrates into the sanctuary the con¬ 
gregation fly to the water, and, having 
taken a libation, proceed to their ablu¬ 
tions. It is a noisy, merry crowd. 
Later in the day visitors are more rare, 
more silent, intent on a drink and a 
bathe. But as evening falls the sanc¬ 
tuary is once more invaded by a busy 
throng, eager for water and a last dance 
before retiring to roost. It is a place 
visited by all sorts of birds, Sparrows 
and Finches, Nightingales and Black¬ 
birds, Plover and many strangers who 
pause here in their migratory flights. 
In due season, in the early morning 
and late afternoon, Quail come in goodly 
numbers, and then the concealed peace¬ 
ful bower becomes a centre of deadly 
meaning. Even now, as did of yore 
the priests of cruel Astarte, the human 
genius of the grove places nets round 
the shallow pond. The nets completely 
cover the water, pegged down at their 
outer extremities, weighted in the centre, 
this centre being raised on little sticks 
which are all cunningly connected to 
each other. A string, attached to the 
master supporting wand, trails in a 
menacing serpentine through the grass 
to the bower, where it is held by the 
watcher, who keeps at his post both 
morning and evening. The net gives 
rise to little curiosity—to no alarm. 
The birds congregate on the grass and 
presently flutter over the meshes to the 
water. When it is judged that the 
catch is a good one, the string is pulled, 
down fall the nets, and you hear a pro¬ 
digious hubbub, witness a great up- 
upheaval. 
(To be continued .) 
