Two Bob Whites were standing beneath the old thorn-bush at the far end of the orchard; indeed, they had been standing there for some time, with their heads held close, just as though they were talking together. In fact, that is just what they were doing. They were talking about the nest that they were going to build. And it was high time, for already there was a nice little brood in that nest beyond the brook. But our Bob Whites were a prudent couple; they did not approve of those early broods which came off barely in time to miss the chilly May rains. But the May spell was over now, the sun shone hot upon the waving wheat, and over the fence, there in the old field, the dewberries were ripe. Already the little boys who live in the house over yonder had been after the berries, regardless of briers and bare feet. Yes, it was high time that nest was built; but, somehow, they could not fix upon an altogether suitable location. True, the old thorn-bush, with its wide-spreading branches, was most attractive; but there the cart tracks ran too close by. As they stood thus in the clover, all undecided, they were startled by a loud cry from Robin Redbreast, whose nest was high up in that apple tree. Turning to ascertain the cause of the outcry, they espied a great, evil-looking, yellow cat, creeping through the long grass. This decided them, and without waiting another moment, they abandoned the thorn-bush and flew away to seek a safer abode. This they finally found over toward the wheat field, far away from cats and all the nuisances which attend the abodes of men.
The nest was built back of the old gray, lichen-covered fence, just above the brook where the hazels and alders grow. All around was a blackberry thicket, and a great tussock of brown sedges sheltered the nest like a roof. Just beyond the fence was the wheat field. No one ever came there, excepting that now and then on a Saturday the little boys who lived over yonder would pass by with their fishing-poles, jump the fence, and disappear in the hazel thickets. The Bob Whites didn’t mind the boys, unless Nip happened to be along, nosing about in search of some mischief to get into. But as yet no little white egg lay in the nest, and when Nip cocked his impudent little ears at them, they were off with a whirr that sent him, scampering, startled and scared, after the boys. From the trees to which they had flown, the Bob Whites watched the movements of the boys with some anxiety. “They might, you know,” whispered Mrs. Bob, “be after that brood of our cousin’s beyond the brook; but no, they’ve stopped—they are throwing something into the water, and there’s that good-for-nothing Nip with them, so we may go back to the nest.” But they did not go, for there was that pert Jennie Wren fluttering about, as bold as anything, actually peeping into the bait gourd, and, goodness gracious! she has stolen a worm and flown off with it; what impudence! And listen, there’s Cardinal Grosbeak singing to them,—
“Boys, boys, boys,
Do, do, do
Fish a little deeper.”
There he is, just a little above them, upon the hackberry; now he’s flown to that willow; he looks like a coal of fire, there among the green leaves. Now he begins again with his—
“Boys, boys, boys,
Do, do, do.”
“The song may do well enough, but we don’t approve of such forward ways,” sighed Mrs. Bob. “No,” chimed in Mrs. Mate Hare, limping from her home in the broom sedge. “It’s not safe, with that horrid little Nip so near; to be sure, they’ve got wings, but as for me, he just frightens the life out of me, with his nosing and sniffing; forever nosing and sniffing after some mischief.” And she wiggled her nose and ears and looked so funny that the Bob Whites almost laughed in her face.
Before long there was a little white egg in the nest, and Bob White was so proud of it that he just stood upon the fences and called, “Bob White, Bob White, Bob White,” all day long. And the boys who lived over yonder at the farmhouse said, “Listen to the Bob White, he’s got a nest over there in the wheat.” “Let him alone,” said the farmer; “there’ll be good shooting over there by and by.” But Bob White had no thoughts to spare for by-and-bys. The blue June sky and the rustling wheat, the wild roses, and that little egg lying there in the nest were enough for him. So he just turned his round breast to the sunshine, and called “Bob White” louder than ever.
After a while, when the nest was full of eggs, the Bob Whites would creep through the wheat and whisper of the little ones that would soon be coming. “They’ll be here by the time the wheat is ripe,” says Bob. “It’ll be fine feeding for them,” replies Mrs. Bob. They never thought of the reapers with their sharp scythes, and of the noise and tramping, where all was now so peaceful.
While Mrs. Bob sat upon her eggs, it amused her to see the Mate Hares come limping out at sunset, very timidly at first, pausing, startled, at every sound. Soon, however, they forgot their fears and began their dances, hopping and running round and round like mad, and cutting such capers as quite scandalized the Bob Whites.
“How very odd!” said Mrs. Bob, as she settled herself over her eggs. “I have heard that the March Hares have a Bee in their bonnets.” “Same family,” Bob White replied drowsily. Then Mrs. Bob, pressing her soft feathers gently upon her eggs, tucked her head under her wing and slept.