Az a means ov diet, they are just about az luxurious az a biled indigo bag would be, such az the washwimmin use tew blue their clothes with.
The blujay haz no song—they kant sing even “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains;” but i must sa that a flok ov them, flying amung the evergreens on a kold winter’s morning, are hi colored and eazy tew look at.
It iz hard work for me to say a harsh word aginst the birds, but when i write their history it iz a duty i owe tew posterity not to lie.
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.