LITTLE METACOMET'S QUAIL
One morning Little Metacomet heard a quail piping in the open wood,
where were rocks and partridge berries. That music of the woods always
caused him to turn his quick ear.
The quail was the Indian's true bird. Did the flock not sit around in
a circle at night on the brown and mottled leaves, their own color, so
that each one could fly away rapidly, and _scatter_, and did they not
all come back again after such a flight, at the call of their leader,
or little brown chief? Who elected the quail that called the flock a
leader, and how did he know that he was to act as leader in his kingdom?
Oh, he was a shy, true-hearted bird, the quail of the white birch
woods. He loved nature, and he knew when the rain was gathering, though
the sun shone bright. He liked the bushes near the open meadows, the
banks near the ponds where the cranberries grew, and the fringed
gentians in the Indian summer. He loved to scoot, and to pipe, and to
lift his velvet head high, and draw it back again.
Roger joined the Indian boy.
"He is calling for you," said Little Metacomet, "What does he say?"
"Ah, Bob-White," said Roger, repeating the Puritan interpretation.
"Is your name Bob-White?" asked Little Metacomet. "It calls you Bob
White. The quail knows."
He leaped, and lifted his hand.
"Still, still."
A brown bird was darting to and fro under the bushes--two of them. They
were carrying away something under their wings.
"Still, still," said Little Metacomet, "they are moving their nest."
The quails came to a heap of straw near the trail, and darted away to a
huge trunk of a tree where had gathered a pile of brown leaves.
The way from their nest to this tree was brown; it was covered with
brown leaves of the last fall. The birds tried to spread themselves
out, so that the color might protect them. They came and went in this
swift but cautious way many times.
"Let's go look," said Little Metacomet.
There were two eggs left in the nest.
"Let's go far, and see if they will come after them, now that we have
looked," said Little Metacomet.
They went away some rods. The quails were true to their nest and to all
of the eggs. They came scurrying back and then they came no more. They
thought that they had moved their eggs from danger.
Little Metacomet now called Roger "Bob-White," as he thought the quail
had named him so.
The next day, Little Metacomet said--
"Bob-White, let us go to the nest, and see how many eggs are there.
Still, still."
They went very softly back to the nest. There were shells of eggs to
be seen, scattered about, but no mother bird, nor any eggs. The mother
quail had hatched her brood, and hurried with them away farther from
danger.
"Bob-White!" The whistle came from the far woods.
"The quail is calling you," said Little Metacomet.
"Bob-White!" The tone was pure, honest, and clear.
"The quail is my bird," said Little Metacomet. "He calls you by name.
I like him for that. Let us both cover the quail from harm. He is my
bird--he is yours, he calls you by name. He is a little chief--I am a
little chief."