THE QUAIL.
The quail iz a game bird, about one size bigger than the robin, and so sudden that they hum when they fly.
They hav no song, but whissell for musik; the tune iz solitary and sad.
They are shot on the wing, and a man may be good in arithmetick, fust rate at parseing, and even be able tew preach acceptably, but if he hain’t studdied quail on the wing, he might az well shoot at a streak ov lightning in the sky az at a quail on the go.
Briled quail, properly supported with jellys, toast, and a champane Charlie, iz just the most diffikult thing, in mi humble opinyun, to beat in the whole history ov vittles and sumthing tew drink.
I am no gourmand, for i kan eat bred and milk five days out ov seven, and smak mi lips after i git thru, but if i am asked to eat briled quail by a friend, with judishious accompanyments, i blush at fust, then bow mi hed, and then smile sweet acquiescence—in other words, I always quail before such a request.