A QUAIL.
As the hound belonged to Sam Harper and showed a disposition to go with
him, he was allowed to do so, the lad moving off to the right and Nick
Ribsam to the left, as was agreed upon.
Nick had not his father's watch with him, but Herbert Watrous carried a
handsome gold hunting-piece, which was now consulted and showed it was
nearly two o'clock.
"The days are getting short," said Sam Harper, with a doubtful shake of
the head; "that doesn't leave us more than three hours of daylight, and
it is hardly worth while to part company."
"What's the odds?" laughed Nick, who was anxious to look for the deer;
"we won't be far apart, as we may be to-morrow."
And, without waiting to discuss the question, he struck to the left with
his strong step, the others following the courses already mentioned.
No afternoon could have been more charming, with the summer lingering
and mellowing the approaching winter.
The faint, smoky haze of the atmosphere, the clear sky, the warm sun,
the brilliant-hued vegetation in the woods, the faint cawing of crows in
the distance, and the flight of birds overhead, looking like
mathematical figures in India-ink gliding across the blue heavens, the
delicious languor everywhere: all these were at their best, and he who
was wandering through the rainbow-tinted forest, where the sleepy waters
flowed, could well understand why it was the pioneers, like Daniel
Boone, Simon Kenton, and others, turned their backs on civilization,
and, plunging into the wilderness, buried themselves for months from the
sight of their fellow-men.
Sam Harper was moving quietly toward the north, when it seemed to him
that a large leaf suddenly blew forward from beneath his feet and was
carried swiftly over the ground, straight ahead and away from him.
Looking closely, he discovered that it was a plump quail which he had
startled, and which was speeding from him. Although the bird has short
legs it runs very swiftly, and it was gone almost before Sam identified
it.
"Ah, if I could only get a shot at you," said the lad, his mouth fairly
watering, "what a splendid supper you would make!"
The words were yet in his mouth, when a sudden whirring sound broke the
air, and he caught a glimpse of a second quail flying like an arrow
below the principal limbs.
Sam raised his rifle as quick as a flash, took aim as best he could, and
fired. Even the great Dr. Carver would have missed under such
circumstances, and the lad came nowhere near hitting the game.
So swift was the flight of the bird, that as soon as the trigger was
pulled and Sam looked for it it had vanished. That man who handles the
rifle must be wonderfully skillful to bring down one of those birds on
the wing.
It is curious how the name of the common quail is disputed and varied.
There are plenty who will insist that I should have called this bird a
partridge, when, in point of fact, there is no true representative of
the partridge in America.
The spruce partridge is the Canada grouse; the partridge of New England
is the ruffed grouse; the partridge of the Middle and Southern States is
the quail, of which several varieties are called partridges; while in
Europe the birds which are called quails are in reality partridges.
Without tiring my readers by attempting anything like a scientific
discussion of the question, I may say there are a dozen species of
quails found in North and Central America and the West Indies, and Mr.
Baird proposes that, as neither the name quail, partridge, nor pheasant
is properly given to any American bird, the species to which I refer
should be called the Bob White.
If this should be done, the smallest urchin will be able to recognize
the species from its peculiar call.
Sam Harper would have been glad indeed if he could have secured one of
these delicious birds for supper, but there was little prospect of
doing so. The game looks so much like the brown and mottled leaves among
which it searches for food, that a hunter would almost place his foot
upon one without observing it, while the nest of the quail or partridge
is almost as impossible to find as the remains of an elephant in Ceylon,
where it is said no such remains have ever been discovered.
One of the lessons Sam had learned from his father was to reload his gun
immediately after firing it, so as to be ready for any emergency.
Accordingly, before stirring from his place, he threw out the shell from
his breech-loader and replaced it with a new cartridge.
Just as he did so, he heard the report of a gun only a short distance to
the left, at a point where Herbert Watrous should have been.
"He's scared up something," was the natural conclusion of Sam, who
smiled as he added; "I wonder whether he could hit a bear a dozen feet
off with that wonderful Remington of his. It's a good weapon, and I wish
I owned one; but I wouldn't start out to hunt big game until I learned
something about it."
The boy waited a minute, listening for some signal from his companion,
but none was heard and he moved on again.
Sam, like many an amateur hunter, began to appreciate the value of a
trained hunting dog. Bowser was not a pure-blooded hound; he was fat and
he was faultily trained. He had stumbled upon the trail of the buck by
accident and had plunged ahead in pursuit, until "pumped," when he
seemed to lose all interest in the sport.
He now stayed close to Sam, continually looking up in his face as if to
ask him when he was going to stop the nonsense and go back home.
He scarcely pricked his ears when the quail ran ahead of him, and paid
no attention to the whirring made by the other. He had had all he wanted
of that kind of amusement and showed no disposition to tire himself any
further.