|THIS isn't the story of the Bob White you know, and yet when I think
it over, I don't know but that it is, after all. It is the story of the
first Bob White, the great-great-great-ever-so-great-grand-father of
the Bob White you know and I know and everybody who ever has heard his
whistle knows. It is a story of that long-ago time, way back in the
beginning of things, when the world was young, and yet I guess
it is just as much our own Bob White's story as it is his
great-great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather's. You see, it is because
of it, of what happened in that long-ago time, that Bob White _is_ Bob
White. So that makes it his story too, doesn't it? Anyway, I'll tell you
the story and leave it to you to decide.
Old Mother West Wind told me the story, and she got it from Peter
Rabbit, and Peter got it from--well, I don't know for sure, but I
suspect he got it from Bob White himself. You know Peter and Bob White
are great friends. They are very near neighbors. They are such near
neighbors and such good friends that if it popped into Peter's funny
little head to be curious about Bob White's affairs, he wouldn't
hesitate an instant to ask Bob about them. Anyway, some one told Peter
the story, and I like to think that that some one was none other than
that brown-coated little whistler, Bob White the Quail, himself. Here is
the story as Old Mother West Wind told it to me:
“Long, long ago, way back in the beginning of things, when the world was
young, when the Green Meadows were new, and the Green Forest was new,
and the Smiling Pool and the Laughing Brook and the Big River were new,
and the little and big people whom Old Mother Nature put in them to
live were new too, being the very first each of his kind, things were
different, quite different from what they are now. Old Mother Nature
was busier than she is now, and goodness knows she is busy enough these
days. In fact, she is a million times busier than the busiest other
person in all the Great World. If she wasn't, if she grew tired or lazy
or careless or anything like that, I am afraid things would go so wrong
with the Great World that they never, never could be righted again.
“But in these far-away days in the beginning of things she was busier
still. It is always easier to keep things going after they are once
started than it is to start them, and Old Mother Nature was just
starting things. So she started a great many of the little people off in
life, and told them to make the best of things as they found them in
the Great World and do as well as they could while she was attending to
other matters.
“Now one of these little people was a plump little person
in a coat of reddish-brown feathers. He was Mr. Quail, the
great-great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of all the Quails. To Mr.
Quail, as to all the others, Old Mother Nature said: 'The Great World
is new. There is a place in it for you, but you must find that place
for yourself. There is work for you to do, but you must find out for
yourself what it is. When you have real need of anything come to me, but
don't bother me until you do have. No one who proves to be helpless or
useless will live long. Now run along and prove whether or not you have
a right to live.'
“So little Mr. Quail went out among the other people in the Great World
to try and find his place. All the other people were trying to find
their places, and some of them were having a dreadful time doing it. A
great many began by trying to do just what their neighbors did, which
was the very worst kind of a mistake. It was a pure waste of time. Worse
still, it wasn't making a place in the work of the Great World. Little
Mr. Quail's eyes were very bright, and he used them for all they were
worth. His wits were quite as bright, and he used these the same way.
“'There are two things for me to find out,' said he to himself, 'what
I can't do and what I can do. The sooner I find out what I can't do, the
more time I'll have to find out what I can do. I've got wings, and that
must mean that Old Mother Nature intends me to fly. I'm glad of that. It
must be fine to sail around up in the air and see all that is going on
down below.'
“Up overhead Ol' Mistah Buzzard was sailing 'round and 'round, high up
in the sky, with hardly a motion of his broad wings. Little Mr. Quail
watched him a long time, and a great longing to do the same thing filled
him. At last he sprang into the air, and right then he made a discovery.
Yes, Sir, he made a discovery. He must beat his wings with all his might
in order to stay in the air. When he stopped beating them and held them
spread out as Ol' Mistah Buzzard did, he found that he simply sailed
a little way straight ahead and then began to come down. He must keep
those wings moving very fast or else come down to the ground. Then he
made another discovery. In a very little while his wings were so tired
that he just had to stop flying.
“Little Mr. Quail squatted in the grass and panted for breath. He was
disappointed, terribly disappointed. 'It's plain to me that Old Mother
Nature doesn't intend that I shall spend my time sailing about in the
air,' said he. He scratched his pretty little head thoughtfully. 'I can
fly pretty fast for a short distance,' he continued, talking to himself,
'but that is all. That must mean that I have been given wings for use
only in time of need. There are some birds flitting about in a tree.
They seem to be having a good time. I think I'll join them. If I can't
sail about in the air, the next best thing will be flitting about in the
trees.'
“So after he had rested a bit, little Mr. Quail flew to the tree
where the other birds were flitting about, and there he made another
disappointing discovery. Try as he would, he couldn't flit about as
they did. Moreover, he didn't feel comfortable perched in a tree for any
length of time. It made his toes ache to bend them around the branch on
which he was sitting. He watched the other birds, and his bright eyes
soon discovered that their feet were different from his feet. Their toes
were made to clutch twigs and hold them there comfortably, while his
were not. 'Old Mother Nature doesn't intend that I shall spend my time
flitting about in trees,' said he sorrowfully, and flew down to the
ground once more.
“Right away his feet felt better. All the ache left them. It was good to
be on the ground. Pretty soon he began to run about. It was good to run
about. He felt as if he could run all day without getting tired. While
hunting for food he discovered that if his toes were not made for
perching in trees, they certainly were made for scratching over leaves
and loose earth where stray seeds were hiding. Then he made still
another discovery. His coat was just the right color to make it hard
work for others to see him when he squatted down close to the ground. If
an enemy did discover him, his stout little wings took him out of danger
like a bullet.
“Little by little it came over him that he had found his place in the
Great World, which was on the ground most of the time. But he remembered
what Old Mother Nature had said about work to do, and this worried him a
little. One day he watched Mr. Toad catching bugs. Old Mr. Toad was
grumbling. 'I can't keep up with these pesky bugs,' said he. 'When I get
my stomach full, I have to wait for it to get empty again before I can
catch any more. But _they_ don't wait. _They_ keep right on eating all
the time, and there won't be any green things left if I don't have
help.'
[Illustration: 0153]
“Little Mr. Quail grew thoughtful. Then he started in to help Old Mr.
Toad catch bugs so as to give the green things a chance to grow. He had
found work to do, and he did it with all his might. He forgot he ever
had wanted to sail around in the air or flit about in the trees. He had
found his place in the Great World, and he had found work to do, and
also he had found the secret of the truest happiness. He was so happy
that he had to tell his neighbors about it. So every morning, just
before starting work, he would fly up on a stump and whistle with all
his might; what he tried to say was, 'All-all's right! All-all's right!'
But what his neighbors thought he said was, 'Bob-Bob White! Bob-Bob
White!'
“So they promptly called him Bob White and loved him for the cheer which
his clear whistle brought to them. When Old Mother Nature came to see
how things were getting on, she found little Mr. Quail the happiest and
the most useful of all the birds, and as she listened to his whistle,
she smiled and said: 'I love you, Bob White, and all the world shall
love you.' And all the world has loved him to this very day.”