_Bob White Quail._
Now as I had grown from boyhood to man and had become the father in a
little “home, sweet home,” my responsibilities naturally caused me to
take life a little more seriously. But, as a boy loves to go bare-foot
and play marbles in the spring of the year, when fall came my whole body
and soul seemed to reach out for just one sup of pure, unadulterated
nature, and many and many a morning, after I have been over to the
factory and built a fire under the boiler, have I taken a stroll by
twilight, before breakfast, and stepped up into a fence corner, leaned
against the old rails and stood and breathed the pure air of a new-born
day. Possibly the swish-sh-sh-sh of a flock of small wild ducks might be
heard overhead as they darted their way southward; the note of the
wood-thrush might also be noticed, and the flutter of the dear old
woodcock’s wings have sometimes almost caused me to flinch. Then as the
last stars were closing their eyes for the day and the white frost of
the early-October morning became visible on the top rail, away to the
east would come the faint call of the quail. That voice would hardly die
out before the father of another family would start calling the roll,
right in the next field; then one to the south; another bevy, near the
woods, to the north; and again to the west would come these cheerful
notes; until the frosty air would fairly ring, all around me, with the
melody of Bob White’s roll call, the head of the family calling and each
member answering. And if all is well, and none is missing, in about
three minutes all is still and one would not know there was a quail in
the country, unless a hawk happened to dart among them; then a shrill
alarm is given, and all buzz for cover.
Now it is said that there never was a tribe of heathen discovered that
did not worship some kind of idol. This I am not prepared to prove. But
I will say this: That no intelligent man can live in this great, great
out-of-doors and study the creatures that occupy it before man has any
control over them, combined with the regularity of the sun, moon and
whispering stars, without being compelled to believe that there is an
over-ruling Power. And although I had not read a word on the value of
our quail, this thought often presented itself to me: “What did God put
them here for?” Yes, I can recall time, and time again, when, after I
had emptied the quail out of my hunting-coat pocket I have gone to the
kitchen door and thrown out by the handful the weed-seed that had worked
out of their bursted crops; and how often, in the summer, I have seen
them picking insects, as they strutted by my hiding place! Now, I am
proud to say, I have not shot a quail in nearly twenty years, and I am
still prouder to say that I have this much confidence in humanity, that
to-day there wouldn’t be one quail shot where there are five, if these
shooters would first consider their cheerfulness, beauty and value while
alive. For one Bob White sitting on the top rail, sounding his beautiful
note, brings more gladness and more cheer to more people than
twenty-five will in a bloody game-sack.
Now about the only argument the quail shooter has to put up is that the
wire fence has taken the place of the old rail and weedy fence row, and
has destroyed their cover, and that if he didn’t shoot them the quail
would only fight, one among the others, and would not nest. I am not
here to say that this man has no brains, but I will say that the itching
of his trigger-finger to shoot something has got control of his brains;
and when I hear him blowing off this stuff I take father’s advice, and
“drop it.” For the positive fact is that the old fence row is, and
always was, the worst death trap that quail ever took shelter in. The
height of a sportsman’s ambition is to see them alight there; and the
prowling house-cat has a great advantage there; and when March comes,
that is just the place to look for a bunch of dead quail—quail that
sought shelter there during the winter months, were drifted under, and
died. All thinking men will admit that when quail are in real need of
shelter, this old fence row is nothing but a fence drift. The only
drawback quail have in Western Ontario, and in Ohio as well, is the
disappearing of the woods that sheltered them from the drifting snows.
Not that he gets any of his living there, but just flies there for
shelter during the severe storms of winter.
As to them becoming so numerous as to quarrel and not breed, quail do
not nest or breed in the woods. When we came to Canada in 1878 there
were twenty-five where there hasn’t been one during the last ten years.
I am sure I have seen one hundred and fifty quail on an ordinary farm;
and this change is not because the wire fence has taken the place of the
rail, etc. All these excuses are false and without foundation.
Now here is the positive fact: The great mistake the sportsmen have made
is that they have directed all their attention on the death-dealing
weapons, as to how to destroy the quail. The breech-loader has taken the
place of the old muzzle-loader; the six-shot pump gun has taken the
place of the double-barrelled breech-loader; the quick, nitro-explosives
have taken the place of the slow black powder; and thus we have gone on
and on for the last thirty-five years, to my personal knowledge,
thoughtless and ignorant of what we were doing, not taking into
consideration at all the increasing number of shooters, year by year,
until at last we have waked up to find that our birds have decreased
over ninety per cent. during that time.
Has the wire fence destroyed the ducks, the beautiful trumpeter swans,
our mourning doves, the woodcocks and meadow-larks? These migratory
birds have decreased the same as our Ontario quail have, and God-given
intelligence, wrongly directed, is responsible for it all.
[Illustration:
SELF-SERVING FEED-RACK FOR QUAIL THAT GAVE FAIRLY GOOD SATISFACTION]
Now just picture North America if, during the last thirty-five years, we
had paid as much attention to the protection and increase of our birds
as we have to these death-dealing weapons. What a cheerful difference it
certainly would have made!
About ten years ago I started to protect the quail in earnest. I made
eight feed-racks, the same as shown in illustration.
The boxes are eight inches square and four inches deep. The cover is
about three feet wide and almost one foot from the feed. If a little
snow does drift in, it is very light and the birds will scratch and get
the feed, as no sleet or rain can reach it.
The quail soon found the food and I was agreeably surprised to see the
number of tracks around these racks the first time I went to visit them;
but when I returned three or four days later there was scarcely a quail
to be seen. On investigation I found that the hawks had apparently
struck the Klondyke of their lives, and it was almost sure death to Bob
to go near the feed, as Mr. Hawk was always watching.
[Illustration:
HAWK AND OWL TRAP
This photograph shows a mistake in that the Clog got fastened and is
holding the Hawk up. This will scare other Hawks and make them shy
of the place.]
Then I bought a few No. 1 jump traps and cut three poles, fifteen or
twenty feet long and from four to five inches through at the butt. I
then drove three or four small nails in the butt-end of each pole, to
stay the trap and keep it from blowing off, but leaving it free enough
so that when it caught its victim he could fly up and raise the trap off
the top of the pole. A small brush-clog was fastened to the end of the
chain and a nail was driven in the side of the pole about a foot from
the trap, to hang the clog on. About six or eight small staples were
driven in around the pole, near the trap, to put fragments of weed and
grass in so as to disguise the trap, making it appear like an old
sparrow’s nest. Then I stood the pole, with the butt up, beside another
small tree so that the boughs of the tree would project a foot or so
above the trap; then wired the pole to the tree. When a hawk or owl gets
his toe in such a trap there is nothing solid for him to jerk against,
but he can fly down with the trap and clog, and isn’t apt to jerk out.
Moreover, when hawk number two comes along, number one is not up there,
flapping, to scare him and make him shy of this pole. I have known them,
time and again, to alight on the same pole and then fly down and kill
and eat the hawk below who was flapping around with the trap and clog.
In these three traps I caught seventeen quail-destroyers the first month
I put them up, and I also got the toe of another hawk, and the following
winter I got the rest of that hawk.
As proof that birds visit the same places, I will say that I haven’t
caught over fifteen hawks and owls down there in any one winter, in
those three traps, since.
[Illustration:
SHELTER AND FEEDING PLACE FOR QUAIL]
Well, the feed-racks did not seem to fill the bill in every way, so in a
year or so I decided to try another scheme. I loaded up all the old junk
lumber I could find and hauled it to the woods, and in one day another
man and I completed ten little bungalows-in-the-rough. They are about
one foot high in the rear, and four to five feet high in the front, with
from five to six feet ground space, as shown in the illustration
herewith.
Then, to complete my experiment, I begged ten bags of weed-seed from a
neighbor who was hulling clover. I threw a bagful in each house, and
then threw in, on top of the weed-seed, corn, wheat and buckwheat. In
less than a week the birds visited every house, and on a cold, zero day
I believe I have seen as high as fifty quail buzz out of one of these
little, unpatented shacks. And best of all, they scratched right down
through the grain and ate the weed-seeds first. I soon found I had made
a hit, as the shacks furnished the birds shelter as well as food in the
time of need, and a certain amount of protection from their natural
enemies.
But these birds down in the woods remained quite wild. So I got several
quiet bantam hens and kept them ready, and when any neighbor farmer
disturbed a quail’s nest I had a place for the eggs. In this way I have
had some enjoyable experiences.
I first set the hen in a small box on the ground, on a nice cushion of
soft grass, pet her lots and let her eat from my hand; I push her
feathers forward and pepper her just full of Prussian insect powder, and
sprinkle a little in the nest, also. Now I am all ready for some one to
phone that they have disturbed a quail’s nest.
[Illustration:
SHELLS OF QUAIL EGGS AFTER HATCHING]
If you take eggs from a nest that is not disturbed, never, never take
them until the bird has finished laying and has started to set, for if
you take the eight or ten she will build another nest and finish laying,
then put in her valuable time with only half a brood, whereas if she has
started to set she will only lay off a few days, then will build a new
nest and raise a full brood. A quail will lay from fifteen to
twenty-two, and sometimes as high as twenty-five, eggs.
Quail eggs all hatch, and hatch very suddenly. One year I looked at a
nest at ten o’clock and there was nothing doing, and when I came by at
twelve o’clock the old hen scolded, so I took another peep; all hands
had apparently opened the door at once, and the cluster of pure white
eggs had changed so that they resembled a live bumble-bee’s nest.
Quail have no trouble hatching, like some of our domestic fowl; they
just simply open the door and jump out. See the illustration.
Pat once asked a little boy what he came for. The little chap in his
bashful way replied, “Oh, nothing.” Again Pat took his pipe from between
his teeth, as he said, “Well, you’ll find that in the jug behind the
door, where the whiskey was.” So we can say the same about this
illustration; it is where the little quail were. Notice the neat,
uniform way in which they opened the door from the inside.
When they are about to hatch, shut the door of the box so as to keep the
tiny pets in. When they are from twenty to thirty-six hours old, move
all hands to a dry coop near the garden, or in the back yard near
shrubbery. The coop should be from eighteen to twenty-four inches square
inside, built with a shed roof ten to twelve inches high in the rear and
eighteen to twenty inches high in the front, with a board floor so that
the old hen cannot scratch and be on damp ground. Now take three boards
about one foot wide and two feet long, tack them in front of the old
hen’s coop for a playground for the quail. Leave the hen in the coop and
she will put her head out and talk to her family, who cannot get over
two feet away from her. Feed them a little custard (one egg to half a
cup of milk; no sugar). Feed tiny bits five times a day, always tapping
the tin with the spoon as you go near them. In three or four days they
will accept the hen as their stepmother, and you as their step-parent.
Now draw the two nails (which are only partly driven in) and pull the
three boards quietly away, leaving the hen in the permanent coop, but
giving the quail their liberty. See illustrations.
Now don’t run after them if they run away; just tap the tin a little, as
you drop a little custard in front of their mother so she can call them.
Let me say right here: Never try to drive any bird. They can hide where
you can’t, and experience has proven to my entire satisfaction that they
can fly faster that I can run. Always throw feed and kindness at them,
and watch results.
In about a week, let the hen out a few minutes before sundown, so she
hasn’t time to stray far from home and will go back into the roost. In
about another week the hen can run all the time with her family. Feed at
the back door, or any place you want the quail to come, and your pets
will be there. Remember that it is the human race that is wild, not the
birds. Birds are wild because they have to be, and we are wild because
we prefer to be. Any creature that is intelligent enough to fly or run
from you for self-preservation, will come to you for food and protection
from all other enemies.
[Illustration:
YOUNG QUAIL JUST FOUR WEEKS OLD
Notice one in Baby’s hair.]
[Illustration:
EATING FROM THE HAND THAT ONCE HELD THE GUN]
As to the value of quail, I know this, that they are the farmer’s
friends; that they cannot live in the dense wilderness and that they do
follow up the pioneer’s axe where climate will allow; and that fully
seventy-five per cent. of their diet consists of weed-seed and insects
that are injurious to the production of food stuffs for the human race.
The small amount of wheat they eat is ’most all gathered from the
stubble field, and as for the few kernels of corn, this is mostly taken
during the winter; and we all know that a farmer who makes a practice of
leaving his corn out, is an undesirable heavy weight and possibly has no
appreciation of Bob White’s beautiful note ringing in the country, and
the sooner he moves to town and joins the “Retired Failures’
Association” the better for the country.