BOB WHITE IN WINTER
These little birds have a hard time finding food when the snow is on the ground.
“Bob white! You bob white!” cries a brave little fowl from the top rail of the old fence. His call is the embodiment of cheerfulness. There is something heartening in the sound. This is due in part to its rich and vigorous quality, and in part to its rising termination—the question in the final note—as if it said “All right there, Fellows?” How different from the note of the whippoorwill, with its falling inflection and its general expression of sad finality. The whippoorwill may be a cheerful bird. One is inclined to doubt it; but we know Bob White is happy. Just hear him! He looks it too. Thus this cheerful little optimist makes his way to the hearts of men. Even the sportsmen who slay him love him, and are often his best friends,—after the shooting season,—and the epicure loves him—on toast. Down South they call him partridge. In the North he is known as the quail; but the ornithologists, who try to settle such matters for all, have taken his word for it and have named him Bob White.
A YOUNG BOB WHITE
This cheery little manikin is about the most important North American bird that flies, not excepting even the American eagle. He is the farmer’s friend. Almost every insect pest of the garden and field is grist for his mill. All spring and summer he slays his thousands and tens of thousands, and in the fall he fattens up on millions of weed seeds. Yes, grain too; but only the waste grain left in the stubble. That is about all the grain he takes—and, after all this, many farmers get the sportsman to pay off the taxes on their farms for the privilege of shooting their little friend! Thus the school taxes are paid, and Bob White settles for the education of the children.
YOUNG BOB WHITES
The birds in this group are seven weeks old.