We stood in the marsh one day, Don and I, OFTENTIMES in the sear and yellow fall, when October frosts have blighted the green summer sward, I have stood in the marsh, my faithful four-footed friend beside me, and he and I have looked away up on the hillside, where golden corn-stalks were bending to the breeze, where little thickets stood apart from one another in clustered bodies, and the osage hedges formed a line of impenetrable fence. At such times, the clear air bore to our ears the sweetest cry known to the hunter, the call of the quail, whistling for its scattered inates. We looked at each other, and when I said to him, "Shall we go?" the bright, honest face, with its eloquent eyes, beamed on me so wistfully, no words could more fully tell his secret longings. What a complete transformation in my companion! Before the cry of the quail, he stood in the swampy ground, cautious, immovable and on the alert, a perfect retriever. And now, after he finds that the utmost freedom is allowed him to scent, to point, to find the gamest little bird that ever spread wings, he springs forward, and with impetuous bound, clears bush and ditch, while ever and anon, he looks joyfully back as if to thank me for the pleasure or to chide me for moving so slowly. One of these halcyon days is so fresh in my mind, that I cannot resist the temptation to tell what Don and I saw, when the whistling quail coaxed us from our decoys. The dim, gray light of approaching day The quail is semi-domestic in its habits. It loves civilization, and there is no place it likes so well as the sparsely-settled country, invaded by a few settlers or small villages, where the certain indications of rural life are shown by fields of wheat, barley, buckwheat, and the small clearings of the hardy pioneer. Around such places they live and rear their young. The female, with maternal instinct, seeks the place to rear her brood. She is a "squatter" in the true sense of the word. When she has found a place suitable for the comfort of her expected family, and for her lord and master a home, she pre-empts the land and settles upon it; and the male with his life will see that her homestead rights are protected. There is no establishment of this homestead by metes and bounds, as necessity requires in human laws but the divine law gives them a territory for their dwelling place absolutely boundless, where they can wander at their own sweet will. The selection of her nesting-place is made with great caution and care. She finds some quiet, secluded spot hidden from the eyes of man and prying boys, trying if possible, to keep her tiny nest and little ones hid from the cruel hawk, the prowling skunk, or the night-wandering and ghostly owl. The deep recesses of an old fence, where black-berry bushes twine affectionately around the decayed rails, or boards, are to her liking; bunches of grass, the warm sheltered and protecting hedges, offer to her inviting places to build her nest, to lay her eggs, to incubate, and to rear her young. This she is ready to do the latter part of May, at times earlier, depending on the season instinct teaches her the proper time. The eggs laid vary in number from one dozen to two dozen. The period of hatching is about four weeks. When the little ones are brought into the world they are filled with life, and are ready to start out on a voyage of discovery. About the first thing they do is to engage in a foot race, and this they do to the great despair of their fond mother, who with tender entreaty and a great deal of running manages to keep them together. Happy family are they; proud mother is she. The father bears his honors graciously. I have often seen this little family when hunting prairie-chicken. The dog would come to a point on a bunch of grass; the cock would fly away; then the mother, loath to leave her young and tender brood to the mercies of an enemy, would fly a few yards, and with fluttering wings alight and hobble away; would feign serious injury that she might divert the attention of the hunter from her little ones, and would court aeath herself, rather than aught should happen to those she loved so dearly; they, frail, little things, would run chirping away with frightened cry, calling to their mother for protection, or, finding escape impossible, would hide themselves-bodies if they could, if not, their heads-in some bunch of grass; and how they would stare at one in blank astonishment, when picked up and stroked tenderly with one's warm hands. After they have been enjoying the emoluments and pleasures of this earth for perhaps thirty days, the mother reads the riot act to her lord, telling him how she had built them a home, had faithfully attended her duties, had hatched the brood, had fed and cared for them without complaint and without the expectation of reward; had brought them up almost to a condition of independence, and now she wanted him to do his share. He acknowledges the truth of her assertions, and accepts the situation, promising faithfully to protect them to the best of his ability, and to initiate them into the mysteries of how to keep out of the clutches of their natural enemies. The female then retires to her nest and brings up another brood the same season, and the male assumes entire control of the flock turned over to him. When it happens that an event occurs to drive the female from her nest, she will return; but should the eggs be handled by man or boy, then she deserts her nest forever. Should her nest be destroyed she leaves the place, and for a long time, days and weeks, will wander moodily around, or on some fence will dejectedly sit as if in the deepest mourning and despair; while her mate shows, as plainly as he can, the sympathy he has for her in her bereavement. One woula naturally suppose that after being reared in thickets and hidden places, that when quail have become grown and strong they would go to the same places to roost. Not so; after having reached the age of discretion, as it were, they flock together, and with one flight seek some open field, where, closely bunched together, they pass the night. It seems strange, that after having been bred and brought up in the depth of some quiet retreat, that when weeks had added strength to their bodies and acuteness to their natural instincts, that they should abandon these places, and seek the open and exposed field for their roosting-places, and yet the very openness of their roosting-place is an assurance of their safety, as night prowling animals and birds of prey skulking through the deep woods, or skimming phantom-like through the awful stillness of the silent trees, avoid the open fields. After alighting from their flight they huddle together, with heads pointing outward, forming a circle, and presenting to all quarters of approach a serried circle of pointed bills and black sparkling eyes. When disturbed, they fly up with a great whirr and roar, caused by the quick moving of their broad, strong wings, and each shifts temporarily for itself. Their manner of roosting is different from most other birds, in this respect: they do not sleep with the head beneath the wing. In roosting together as they do, it seems to inspire in them a spirit of confidence and fraternal affection, each relying on the protection of the other. With backs to each other they huddle and nestle closely together; the quarrels and fights of the day are forgotten and they commingle in sweet confusion. This they do in early fall, as well as inthe cold winter months. In winter they crowd closely together, bow |