"They'll like that fine big fish we take home, I'll wager."
"After dinner, let's gather some of that Spanish Moss and take it to the Fortuna. I wonder if it wouldn't make good mattresses."
"They say the negroes and some of the whites down here do just that. They bury it in the ground a while then pack it into a mattress and have a fine bed. It must be buried in the earth for a time, though, they say. It is funny looking stuff isn't it?"
"It surely is. But what is that green plant up there? It looks as if the oak tree were all dead except that one sprig of green. Strange that it should keep only one twig alive."
"I believe that's mistletoe growing on a limb of the oak."
"I guess you're right. And down there at the foot of the tree I see a quail. He's humped over and seems to be trying to make himself smaller all the time."
"Hush, man," Harry protested. "Quails don't grow down South as far as this! They're a Northern bird."
"Then maybe I don't know what a quail is," retorted Arnold.
"I don't mean that," replied Harry, "but it seems strange to think of quail being here. I always had an idea that quail humped themselves under the shelter of a corn shock with snow blowing around their toes and nearly freezing them to death."
"Maybe you're right. They tell me the natives call these birds partridges. Just the same, I'll venture to say that I can call them out of cover. Want to see me try it?"