Mother Bob White, with due maternal care, had selected a most
appropriately concealed spot for her treasure. The roughly constructed
nest was built upon high ground, and was artfully hidden at the base of
a tuft of dried grass. That the necessary moisture, which adds vitality
and strength to the young should not be lacking, she had deposited her
eggs almost upon the bare earth, only a thin, but closely woven mat
of dried grass intervening between the nine white eggs and the brown
earth. The days of incubation were divided between the two old birds,
the cock performing his share of the parent's duties. When the hen was
collecting her food he would nestle down upon the eggs with a care
equally as great as that bestowed by the mother.
After the chicks were hatched the cock shook himself free of any and
all responsibility, and betook himself to the meadows to enjoy the more
liberal forage. This desertion was most satisfactory to the mother, for
no doubt she wished to have the entire training of the little ones left
strictly to her care. She would not lead the chicks forth until sure
of his departure. What fluffy little brown beauties they were as they
dodged in and out among the weeds and grasses, learning their first
lessons in the roughest school of life, the school of experience! They
had many dangers to guard against, and they learned that much work
was required of them before their insatiable little appetites were
satisfied. They must brave attacks from foxes, skunks, weasels and
minks upon the ground, and at the same time keep an alert eye upward
for the sudden advent of some hungry hawk by day, or the relentless
swoop of owls by night. Their nights were spent in anxiety, and, in
fact, then they were most insecure, as owls, and foxes especially,
appreciate a young quail and exert themselves to capture them. Their
caution, however, could not interfere with their obtaining a supply of
food and water, so they braved many dangers every hour of their lives,
and not many days after their entrance into this world they had gained
the assurance which comes from meeting and overcoming difficulties.
Mother Bob White had been carefully guarding her little brown family,
leading them forth daily in quest of small bugs and scattered seeds,
always upon the lookout for possible enemies, never failing to flutter
away, feigning a crippled wing, should I chance to come upon her
suddenly. And on such occasions look as quickly and intently as I might
I seldom caught a glimpse of those brown bodies that so well obey the
parting cry of warning, uttered by the mother as she fluttered just
beyond my reach, leading me straight away from her trembling family.
Should you wish to find one of the little chicks you may do so by
carefully feeling among the tufts of grass and other decayed brown
vegetation nearest the spot where one's eye lost them.
Upon one occasion I discovered several of this little brood in a most
peculiar and interesting situation. I had startled the mother-bird
while she was leading her young ones through a wood, the ground thickly
covered with dried leaves, and, as she fluttered away from almost
beneath my feet, I dared not move for fear of crushing one of the
chicks. They scattered and seemed to have disappeared on all sides near
me. Gazing intently upon the mass of brown leaves, I was thinking how
I could extricate myself without harming the hidden brood, when my eye
caught the slight motion of a leaf almost against my foot. I stooped
and gently raised the leaf. It felt wonderfully heavy. This oddity
of weight prepared me for the surprise yet in store. When the leaf
had been lifted a sufficient distance to enable me to look beneath, I
caught a glimpse of a tiny brown rascal clinging desperately. He was in
the drollest of positions, clinging feet uppermost.
I soon learned to know about where Mrs. Bob White's brood could be
found, and they were quite grateful for the crumbs scattered daily
within their reach, usually along an old and dusty wagon road which
passed but a short distance from the spot where the nest had been. The
mother would lead her flock forth where for a few minutes would be
enacted an amusing scene as she attempted their education in the art
of dusting themselves. They would stand amazed, watching the cloud of
fine dust raised by their teacher, until one by one, they seemed to
understand her meaning and then squatting down in a circle, they made
feeble imitations of her vigorous motions.
Wayward Bob was one of this family of nine, but as yet he had not been
named, and, indeed, had he been, it would have taken a close critic to
have distinguished him from his relatives.
Bob, together with his brothers and sisters, was seven days old and
had learned quite rapidly to pick small bugs from the weeds and
grasses, when a great misfortune befell him and I fear but for my
timely assistance nine little homeless, motherless quails would have
sadly longed for the sturdy care of their affectionate guardian. I had
repaired to the old wagon road, to scatter a few crumbs upon the ground
and watch the antics of my little friends. This time they were later
than usual in coming to their dusting place. No doubt, the mother had
given them a wider knowledge of their little world that day.
When they came, I caught sight of them some distance from the side of
the road, wending their way through a tangle of weeds near a large pile
of stones. As I looked a weasel darted from under those concealing
rocks. I cried aloud, and rushed forward but my assistance came too
late for the heroic little mother; and thus nine little orphans were
thrust upon me for support. The young ones were so terrified by the
suddenness of their affliction that they gathered in a helpless knot by
the scene of the tragedy. I gently lifted eight of the fluffy chicks
and deposited them in my hat. There was yet one more to be cared for.
He looked up with an expression of trust and fear commingled. I reached
forth my hand to take him, but, being a sturdy little fellow he decided
to take his chances in the wide world, so he quickly darted from my
hand and disappeared among the many weeds close by. I finally captured
the willful son, and fearing lest he should again elude me, I carried
him in one hand apart from those in the hat. This is how a little quail
came to live with me, and he received the sturdy name of Bob because of
its aptness to his nature.
Bob's brothers and sisters were given to a bantam hen, who had made
a failure with her own brood. She was happy to receive these new
cares, and this time accomplished her maternal duties to her entire
satisfaction, rearing all to their full growth. But Bob went with me. I
placed a box in my room for him, and devoted many pleasant moments to
feeding him, watching his growth, and training his belligerent ways.
My little friend became a great mischief as he grew older. He was
allowed full freedom that summer and fall and his favorite pastime was
annoying a brood of late hatched chickens. Down he would fly among
those chicks, pecking at them spitefully, until the mother forced him
to beat a hasty retreat.
One noon as the dining-room door stood ajar, Bob entered with a whirr,
alighting upon the table when luncheon was being served. The visitor
helped himself daintily from the contents of a platter. I reached my
hand toward the pretty offender, but his fear of my touch caused him to
fly quickly aside. In doing this he collided with a cup of tea, thus
upsetting it, and causing the contents to fall upon my mother's gown.
This act barred him from the dining-room, and he then contented himself
by pursuing flies and grasshoppers upon the lawn.
One day a large grasshopper alighted upon my window. Bob's alert form
came a moment later, and he made a dart for the coveted morsel. The
grasshopper flew across the room, alighting behind a picture which
was standing upon a table. Bob, nothing daunted by his late failure,
flew rapidly across the room, and against the picture. He had the
grasshopper this time, and it disappeared rapidly down his brown
throat; but that was not the end, for the picture toppled forward and
fell, breaking the delicate frame work and damaging a much prized
portrait. This act brought Bob disgrace and punishment. He was not
again allowed the full liberty of the house.
My pet grew large and strong during the fall and winter and I spent
many pleasant moments watching his mischievous pranks and quaint
actions.
Spring came at last, and the summer songsters were arriving, treating
us to many a happy anthem. The blue bird flitted by unnoticed. The
robins were building their nests, and that gaudy summer visitor, the
red-breasted grosbeak, had arrived in the gorgeous splendor of his
spring plumage, when far away across the sweetly scented meadows echoed
the bob white of my little pet's relatives. Bob would listen with head
alert to this call, and then he would pace up and down his box just
as you have seen wild animals do in a zoological garden. With all my
kindness I had failed to deaden his love for the wild life of his
kind. One day, when Bob was perched upon my window sill, there came
from across the orchard a sharp and clear bob white! This was more
than my little friend could withstand. He walked up and down, seeking
vainly for a way to escape. In his sturdy body the varied emotions of
a captive were contending. There was anxiety and hope, anger and fear,
love and hate, commingled in his every motion.
Moved by my pet's desire for freedom, I threw open the sash. Out he
flew, with a joyous whirr of his wings, and alighting upon the garden
fence, with his characteristic energy, he uttered his first bob white!
clear and strong.
He remained near home, giving me a good opportunity to watch his
habits. He daily came to the house for food, and never was he
disappointed, as I regularly placed a handful of wheat where he could
reach it.
One day a great happiness entered the life of my little friend. He was
uttering his call with the sweet tremulous notes of a love-sick life.
Borne from the upper orchard there came an answering call from another
lover in search of a bride. Bob's head went up higher and higher; he
hurried along on an old rail fence, sending his challenge for combat
across to his rival, for lurking near was a little brown form watching
Bob's sturdy mien with piqued interest. He sped quickly to her side,
she retreating farther and farther away across the orchard to the place
where the other lover was watching and waiting for the rival who had
gained favor in her eyes. Bob and his rival met face to face in the
dusty wagon road near the spot where my pet's early life was spent.
Then there was a duel for love, with the little modest brown lady-bird
as umpire and prize.
The rivals chased each other up and down the dusty lane. At last Bob
was victorious, and his rival quickly took wing, followed by the angry
victor. Presently Bob returned alone, and approached his bride. She
had laid a scheme to test his love, and was now ready to abide by the
result of the conflict.
My little pet led his mate away through the wavy grasses, a victor and
a king over the heart of his loved one. Several weeks later, after a
nest had been built and a downy brood hatched, I came upon my old pet.
It was a sunny day, and while strolling down an orchard path, Bob flew
down in front of me, where he stood, trembling and terrified. Thinking
to help my old friend in his distress, I put forth my hand to take
him up. I should have known him better. In an instant he was changed.
He eyed me with that old keen, distrustful glance, rose quickly from
my feet, and flew rapidly away. Hardly had he gone fifty yards when
a pigeon hawk that had been waiting and watching, darted forth, and
swooped down upon poor Bob while in mid-air. A loud snap as the hawk
struck, a sharp cry from the bonny victim, and a few feathers floating
slowly down told too pathetically of Bob's awful fate. I gathered up
the scattered plumage, a memorial of the little wayward quail I had fed
and reared to maturity.
Bob seemed quite a patriot to me, as I reflected upon his decision when
he eluded my hand that final time. "Liberty or death," he seemed to
say, as he flew rapidly away. He exhibited that trait, in his bird-like
way, by which great men have won fame and renown, so he, too, is worthy
of having his story related and his life immortalized.
Charles Thompson.