Sometimes I think I’ll nevermore say Bob-white;
It often gives me quite away, does Bob-white;
And mate and I, and our young brood,
When separate, wandering through the wood,
Are killed by sportsmen I invite
By my clear voice—‘Bob-white! Bob-white!’
Still, don’t you find I’m out of sight
While I am saying ‘Bob-white, Bob-white’?”
—Charles C. Marble.
“They rested in the orchard bushes and the edge of brush-lots, so that I was as sure of seeing broods of little Quail as of our own little barnyard chicks. In the autumn they seemed to know about the hunting as soon as a gun was fired in the distance; then they grew shy, but by Christmas the survivors, and they were many, would come about the hay-barns for food as familiarly as the tree-trunk birds come to the lunch-counter, and I have seen them eating cracked corn with the fowls in the barnyard.