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.
Their dance over, the Mate Hares skipped down to the meadow, where the
dew lay thick upon the clover. "How good!" they said, as they nibbled
and munched. "So sweet and tender, with the dew upon it!" "Who would
eat dry seeds like the Bob Whites?" said one. "And go to sleep at
dusk!" snickered another. "And whistle all day!" said a third. "As
much as to say to all men and dogs, 'Here I am, come and shoot me;' so
silly! Oh, there's no family like the Mate Hares for sense; come,
let's have another dance." So they skipped and hopped and munched
clover until the dawn sent them scudding away to their homes.
Well, at last, upon a sunny June morning, the lonely field was no
longer lonely, neither was it quiet; for the grain was ripe and the
reapers had come. Yes, the reapers had come, and with them came Nip.
Yes, there he was, showing that ugly little red tongue of his, and
poking his black nose into every hole and bush; no place was safe from
those inquisitive eyes and sharp little cruel teeth. Mr. Bob watched
him with a fluttering heart, as he ran sniffing about; suddenly, there
came a sharp yelp, and then Mrs. Mate Hare's cotton tail went flying
over rock and brier, followed by Nip, with his short, inadequate legs.
Soon, however, he tired of this fun, and, trotting back, cocked his
ears at the brier patch, sniffed about it, and crept in. Bob White,
with an anxious call, flew into a tree.
"He's got a nest somewhere about there," said one of the reapers. "I
bet it's full of eggs," he added. "Yes, but the boss has give orders
that they ain't to be tetched," said another. Then there came from the
thicket a growl and a yelp, and Mrs. Bob, with a loud whirr, flew to
her mate. "Nip's got 'em!" cried one of the men, and, picking up a
stone, he ran to the thicket, from whence now issued yelps of anguish.
"He'll not trouble them again, I reckon," the man said, with a grin,
as he picked up his scythe.
Nip trotted home with a crestfallen and dejected air, but the Bob
Whites, still agitated, remained in the tree, with necks craned
anxiously toward the nest. When, at length, Mrs. Bob found courage to
return, the melancholy sight met her eyes of three broken eggs, some
more scattered ones, and a generally disordered nest. Bob now came to
her assistance, the scattered eggs were put back, the nest repaired,
and Mrs. Bob contentedly seated herself upon it.
The hatching time was drawing near, and it was a most exciting period.
Mrs. Bob sat very still, but, as for Bob, he just fidgeted from nest
to tree and back again, stopping around and asking questions. Yes, one
egg is pipped; they'll all be out by to-morrow. And so they
were,--thirteen little puff-balls, upon tiny coral feet. "There would
have been sixteen, but for that horrid Nip," sighed Mrs. Bob. But she
was very proud and happy, as she led the little brood through the
brush, showed them how to pick up ants' eggs, and tore up the soft
mould for grubs and other dainties. When the nimble little feet grew
tired, she took them to the alder thicket, where, hidden away beneath
her feathers, they piped themselves to rest. It was very quiet now:
the reapers had gone; there was no rustling of waving wheat, only the
shocks stood up silent; there was only the soft clang, clang from the
bell-cow, as the herd went home. Then the sun went down, and grayness
followed, and from the thicket came the sad cry of the Chuck Will's
widow. But the Bob Whites were fast asleep. At dawn, Bob White stood
upon the topmost rail, and whistled and whistled as loud as he could;
he felt so happy that he had to repeat, "Bob White, Bob White" to
everything that he saw,--to the bell-cow, as she passed by on her way
to the meadow; then to the boy, who popped his whip and whistled
back; then to the trees, which nodded in return. When the sun came
glinting through the leaves and set the dewdrops to glistening and the
whole world to laughing, he whistled louder than ever, just for joy.
But presently the reapers came again. Then Bob White slipped away and
hid himself far down amid the alders, where Mrs. Bob was showing the
puff-balls how to pick up grubs and how to use their little nimble
legs in running after gnats and other good things. "Don't try to catch
that great bee, but come and pick up these ants' eggs," she called, as
she threw aside the earth with her strong claws. "You must attend to
what I say, for you are very ignorant little things, and if you are
not careful to mind what I say you may be caught up by a hawk at any
moment. So, listen: when I say 'Tuk,' you must hide yourselves
immediately; don't try to run away, but just get under a rock, or even
a leaf, or just flatten yourselves upon the ground, if you can't do
better; you are so nearly the color of the ground that a boy will
never see you, and you can even escape a hawk's keen eye."
After a while, mother and brood left the alder thicket, and, as the
reapers were now in a distant part of the field. Mrs. Bob led them all
to a sunny spot where they might pick upon the fallen grains and
wallow in the dry, hot sand. It was very nice to do this, and they
were having a charming time, when suddenly voices were heard, and at
once two boys were upon them. But not so much as one little brown head
or one little pink toe was visible; the sign had been given, and now
only a poor, wounded Bob White lay in the path before them. "She's
dead," said one of the boys. "No, she ain't, her wing's broke," cried
the other, as he made a dive at her. But somehow, Mrs. Bob continued
to flop the broken wing, and to elude them. Another futile dive, and
the two tin buckets containing the reapers' dinners were thrown down
and forgotten in the keen interest of chasing the wounded Bob White,
who managed to flop and flutter just beyond their reach until she had
led them quite across the field,--then, with a whirr, she bounded
into the air and safely perched herself upon a distant tree. The
astonished small boys gazed blankly after her, wiped their hot faces
upon their sleeves, and turned, reluctantly, to pick up their buckets.
As they went along, hot and crestfallen, one of them suddenly
exclaimed: "She's got young ones hid yonder, I bet," and with that
they set off at a run. Mrs. Bob White, who knew boy-nature well,
craned her neck to watch, and fluttered nearer. Then Bob White came,
and both continued to watch with anxiously beating hearts, for those
little boys were evidently bent upon mischief. Would the poor little
puff-balls outwit them? One little piping cry, one brown head raised,
and all would be lost. But, as they watched, their fears began to
subside. The boys are again wiping their hot faces, they look
discouraged, they have evidently found nothing; yes, certainly not,
for, see, they are picking up their buckets, and now they are going
across the field to where the reapers are calling them to hurry along
with their dinners.
Such daily annoyances as this now determined the Bob Whites to take
refuge in the alder thicket, in whose deep seclusion they soon
regained tranquillity of spirits. The dampness of the situation,
however, proving most unfavorable to their brood, they anxiously
awaited the time when the departure of the reapers would restore quiet
and enable them to return to their haunts. At length the wished-for
time arrived; from the topmost boughs of the big maple Bob White could
see neither man, boy, or dog, in the whole length and breadth of the
field. Summoning the family together, they joyfully crept through the
brush to bask in the broad stretches of sunshine and to pick up the
scattered grain amid the stubble. Here they remained through all the
long summer days, their solitude broken only by the yellow butterflies
and by the big brown grasshoppers bumping about in the stubble, the
silence broken only by the occasional jangle from the bell-cow, as she
shook the deerflies from her sleek sides.
By and by, when the goldenrod was yellow upon the hillside, the young
ones, in their new brown coats, began to try their wings, and felt
very proud if they could make them whirr, when they rose to the fence
or to a low brush. Had they been boys, they would have been called
hobbledehoys; but, being Bob Whites, they were known as squealers, and
as such they felt very mannish and ambitious to be independent; but,
nevertheless, they still liked to huddle together at nightfall and
talk over the day's doings, close to, if not under, the mother's wing.
By and by, again, when goldenrod stood brown and sere upon the
hillside and the sumach glowed red in the fence corners and thickets,
when the fall crickets were chiming their dirge down amid the grass
roots and the air was growing frosty at nights, then the Bob Whites
grew restless and took flight for a far-off pea field, noted as a
feeding-ground. Here they met other families of kinsfolks, and then
began a right royal time, running nimbly through the rich pea vines or
scratching in sassafras or sumach thickets for insects, growing fat
and growing lazy all the time. The gourmand of the autumn was in
manner quite a contrast to the Bob Whites of the days of young wheat
and wild roses. No blithe, good music now issued from that throat so
intent upon good cheer. True, some unpleasant rumors are afloat. The
Mate Hares, scudding frantically away, reported an advance of men,
with guns and dogs; but the Mate Hares were always silly and
unreliable. So our Bob Whites just keep on eating and making merry.
Fortune may favor them,--who knows? Let us hope, and listen out next
year for the cheery "Bob White, Bob White," from the old
nesting-place.