The nest, with its precious contents of 16 little eggs, occupied a snug corner of the old rail fence, hidden amongst the tall rank grass from the sharp eye of marauding crow or pirate hawk. Mr. and Mrs. Bob White were very proud of their treasures, and Mr. Bob would perch on the old, rotting post in the evening and send his voice ringing across the cornfield, answering the tremulous calls from pasture and wood, where other families of quail had their homes and were letting the whole world know of their happiness.
Bob had experienced a hard time the winter before, and the peace and quiet of the spring, with the soft rains and warm sunshine, seemed to him more a dream than a reality.
His faith in humankind had been severely shaken that winter. He no longer felt safe as he sat by the roadside watching the teams rattle past in clouds of dust, and if they stopped near him he would vanish quietly, after the manner of all quail.
He remembered his fright once on a time when the farmer boy halted the horses and fired a target rifle at him. The small bullet knocked him over and hurt sadly, but he scuttled into the long grass to safety with a stinging graze across his back. This rough experience taught him valuable caution, and after several narrow escapes from death in the autumn, he was convinced that guns and dogs were things to be feared and avoided.
He and his little brown wife were the sole survivors of a large family of 20 quail, who, a year ago, had broken from their imprisoning shells, not more than 40 steps from where his little partner was now watching over her treasures.
What a happy six months they enjoyed through the spring’s cool rains and the summer’s shimmering heat. But alas, when autumn came all was changed. Their Eden no longer was a place of refuge. Their lives were threatened every day, and with only their strong little wings to save them. Even whirring flight through the air could not always elude the shower of shot hurled after them from the guns.
Bob White never forgot that fatal day in mid-December when, making their way to the cornfield, the bevy sighted two hunters coming slowly along the dry ravine. They scurried for the timber as fast as their swift little legs would carry them. This was their habit when danger threatened, and such tactics had baffled the hunters many a time. Once within the tangled woods they might bid defiance to gun and dog, for the kindly trees interfered with the aim, and the terrible catbriars and heavy vines over all the ground troubled a dog sadly. but this time it was no ordinary foe they had to deal with.
“John,” called one of the hunters, “Dick has got scent of the bunch that fooled us last week. Better take your dog and work along the edge of the timber and head them off, or they’ll get into the woods again.”
Thus it was that the bevy was panic-stricken to behold the form of a great red pointer swinging through the tall grass at a slashing pace in front of them, cutting off their retreat. As he passed onward he suddenly caught the scent and drew to a point, while the quail huddled together in indecision.
The dog not advancing, they slowly recovered from their alarm and began to plan for escape. The two old birds, as usual, would lead the way to the woods, while the others were to scatter in all directions, meeting in the timber again when all was safe.
The plan was full of cunning, and might have saved them, but at this critical moment a dark, moist nose was cautiously pushed through the grass, and the beautiful brown eyes of an Irish setter were fastened upon the startled bevy, between them and safety, and another voice said, “I was sure they would fly before you got here, Charlie; old Bob was getting impatient at the delay and was aching to flush them, and I was afraid they would all get into the woods. Look at Dick; isn’t he a picture?”
It was a scene, indeed, worthy of an artist’s brush. A bright December sun lighting the sumac bushes and deepening the brilliant foliage of the forest background. Two forms, roughly dressed, whose hunting-coat pockets bulged with loaded shells, their shining guns held at ready poise, standing knee-deep in the dead grass on the gentle slope of the upland. Their hearts beat a trifle faster, perhaps, as they speculated upon the mystery, which the grass just before them concealed, a mystery to them unread but easily interpreted by the sensitive nostrils so eagerly and patiently outstretched.
The two dogs stood facing each other. “Bob,” the pointer, rigid as iron, with uplifted head and forepaw. The setter, with his noble head extended and jaws gently moving as if drinking in the scent that had transformed him into a statue, his feathery tail level with his back, and one fringed forefoot raised from the ground.
The crisis which calls upon the hunter’s command of will and nerve was at hand, that moment which sends the blood thrilling through the veins when he says to himself over again, “I shall not miss,” when hand and eye and the brain act together in the lightning-flash of an instant, and drifting feathers answer the sharp detonation of powder.
It is the tragedy of Nature, for which, let us hope, there is the pardoning virtue of a great excuse.
The two old birds suddenly left the grass at this moment with a buzz of strong wings, but not wishing to fly over the dog, they circled in order make the woods. They passed John like twin meteors, and the two sharp reports smote upon the stillness of the afternoon with ominous import.
“Good kills, both, but you shot the first one rather close, old boy.”
“Had to shoot quick, or they’d been safe in the timber. These loads are all right.”
“Are you all ready?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
Two forms moved in between the motionless dogs, and the bewildered bevy arose with frightened clamor, going straight away to the prairie-grass along the little slough. Three fell to the discharge of four barrels.
These were retrieved by Dick, the setter, as also were the first victims of John’s double shot. He brought them tenderly to his master, a world of love in his eager eyes, and Charlie handed them to John with a good-natured joke at the expense of the pointer, who would not retrieve.
Bob White dimly remembers what followed. The routing-out by the dogs; the sharp and frequent reports of the guns; the tramping hither and thither, until finally he, himself, was an object of interest to panting dogs; and a voice saying, “Your turn, Charlie. Don’t miss.”
As he struggled out of the grass, one of the unfortunate bevy flushed beside him. She had lain so still that he had not noticed her. Wild with fright, they hovered above the tall grass a moment before speeding away to cover, but no report of gun or sting of shot interrupted their headlong flight.
“Why didn’t you shoot? Was your gun empty?” said John. “The easiest shot you have had today; that’s a good one on you.”
“How many have you got, John?”
“Ten, and I am two ahead of you, old man.”
“Well, there can’t be but two or three left, and we may want to have some sport here next autumn. We have got enough for today, and my conscience hurts me for killing so many from one flock. Besides, the sun is getting low, and we should we working toward home.”
Bob White and his little companion joined another bevy that afternoon, and escaped the dangers of the shooting season, and survived the hardships of the winter that followed.
Theirs was the nest Bob so jealously guarded under the old rail fence, and so peaceful had their life been all the spring that the old terrors were lulled to rest. Bob was sure that at least 14 of the eggs would turn into little, active, fuzzy brown chicks who could run and shift for themselves almost as soon as hatched.
In a few days there were scattered around their dooryard the broken shells of 16 eggs, and the busy, brown little forms that had lately occupied them were following two of the happiest quail in the world.
Now Bob’s fear of mankind was forgotten, for the time, and he would mount the top rail at eventide and pipe his song until the first firefly’s lantern glinted among the dark tree trunks in the whispering woods. Hawk nor weasel had found his nest, and dog and gun had never interrupted his happy life.
Summer came and went, and then September was at hand. September is the prophet of autumn and comes foretelling the passing of the year, spreading her panorama of dry, bare prairies, denuded cornfields, and stretches of stubble where once was the growing grain; strewing the faint woodland paths with falling leaves, loosened not by frost but by dry weather; and dropping walnuts, wrapped in their thick green husks, on the grassy walks for the squirrels to bury. The birds have changed their coats and their songs, and even their habits. Nature herself seems to be resting for the last grand carnival of the year, in which she appears in her handsomest of robes.
Bob White has changed his musical call and has taught supreme caution to his family diligently for the past four weeks. He knows from sad, hard experience that with the falling of the leaves from hedge and tree begins a reign of fear and death among his tribe. He forsakes the open path by the roadway and haunts the hedgerows and the woods along the edge of the upland.
Our Bob has not recovered from the shock a few weeks ago, when his own beloved family, while busily catching grasshoppers in the old wheat stubble, were caught themselves by the brown eye of a large Irish setter, whose sensitive nose had located them long before they were aware of his presence.
Away flew the anxious little mother, to fall and flutter helplessly before the dog, whose master was quietly enjoying the little comedy. The young quail had meanwhile scattered in all directions, fluttering over the stubble or running to crouch and remain motionless, even if trod upon.
The hen, still calling her alarm-note, tossed and tumbled before the setter in exact imitation of a broken-winged bird, until, assured of the safety of her brood, away she whizzed, to the evident astonishment of the well-trained dog and the hearty amusement of his master.
“Good dog,” said he. “I was afraid you would break your stand, old fellow, but you haven’t forgotten all you ever knew, have you, Dick?”
The noble animal, seeming to understand that this was but an idle excursion, answered with an intelligent look in which love and mischief were blended. He drew to another point, stopped short, then carefully pushed a small quail from under the grass and leaves with his nose and watched it flutter with all the strength of its feeble wings to a bunch of grass ten feet away.
“Come on, Dick, let’s not pester these little fellows any more. Your nose is fine as silk, and I could have dropped the big bird inside of fifteen yards easily. Remember that fine covey you rounded up at the edge of the timber over there last autumn? We didn’t do a thing to them, did we, old boy? Down, pup. Don’t get so excited. Maybe these are some of their relatives, and we can have no end of sport this winter with them if we have not frightened them to death already. Good shooting, that was. Come on, dog, and we will prospect over on the hill.”
Had Bobby White understood all this talk, his alarm would have been the greater. This much did he understand: here were his old enemies already trespassing on his domain and preparing for his destruction in the autumn. Caution and strategy only would save him now, and he resolved to shun the open fields and roadways and never again go to the wheat stubble. At night he withdrew his family to the high rank grass of the ravine, and when the dew was cold and sparkling on the blades in the early morn, they stole by secret ways down the tall cornrows, listening for the slightest noise and ready to take wing and away at the first suspicion of alarm.
His voice was seldom heard during these trying times expect as a signal-note to scattered members of the bevy, but in the early mornings a clear, mellow call would ring from the cornfield to be answered from the distant wood; and then, as the great, golden sun ushered in another glorious Indian summer day and mallard and teal had left for their southern home, Bob White became silent and sought the shelter of the dark, dense trees and the tumbled vines.
His only fear was that the red setter, Dick, would find him. He felt it was only a question of days until his fear would be realized and his brown darlings be made target for the owner of this four-footed Nemesis.
Bob cared nothing for the casual gunner and his wild, half-trained dog. He well knew the propensities of this animal and often led him to a merry dance up and down the rows of corn, keeping out of range of the breathless hunter who vainly tried, in his turn, to keep within range of his dog. Up and down the field the eager animal would chase, and then, when the sportsman’s patience became exhausted, Bob, easily evading his plunge and taking wing, sailed down to the ravine and the high grass and was lost forever as far as this particular dog was concerned. The hunter would then bring his headstrong brute to hunt up the scattered birds and treat the interested bevy to the scandalizing spectacle presented by a panting, tired dog rushing straight into the pool where he would lie, shoulder-deep, lapping the cool water, breathing long sighs of satisfaction, and ignoring the expostulations of his angry master.
When the dripping dog clambered from the mud and shook the water from his coat, and endeavored to follow through the thick, dusty grass the bewildering trail, he would find it end, after twisting and doubling a dozen times among the briars and vines in the heavy undergrowth, where both hunter and dog would leave it, discouraged and fatigued.
Colder weather; mornings bathed in the soft, pearly haze of the beautiful Indian summer. Frosty nights when the chill stars sparkle sharp and clear as diamonds and the shrill whistle of the wild ducks’ wing thrills upon the air. Balmy days when grove and forest flame with brilliant coloring against the blue background of the October sky, and the nervous little squirrel scolds and fumes as he works with the falling nuts. The birds are well started to the warm South, but the flash of blue among the treetops betrays the jay, even before his strident voice denotes his presence. The creepers are still busy upon the rotten limbs. In the stark fields, the voice of the mourning dove sounds the requiem of the fading year, and the swift rush of the shrike as he catches up the unwary mouse does not escape the sharp eye of his larger brother, the red hawk, hanging motionless against the clouds.
Now and again hill and valley echoed with the reports of breechloaders, and hunters, with their dogs, ranged to and fro through the tall dead grass, searching for scattered coveys. But for Bob White’s careful training, his family would have suffered time and again. Their tactics were a puzzle to the dog, who but found their trail to lose it. Only the setter, Dick, held the key to his movements, and Bob dreaded the time when this silken-coated fellow should unravel the many turns and twistings of the bevy.
Hark! A step crushing the long, dry grass. A canvas-coated figure with ready gun is dangerously close. As the sun glints on the barrel, the suspicious crows take wing from the cottonwood with harsh notes of alarm. The light sound of a bird dog’s feet comes nearer and nearer. Then silence.
The quail rise from their cover and speed on startled wing through the mild autumn air. A sharp report breaks the stillness. A crash, a pang—and darkness. Another report. Soft feathers drift back on the cool wind and catch, fluttering, on the dry twigs, mute signals of woe telling the hunter that his aim has been deadly.
A setter retrieves two warm, still, brown birds, stricken down in their lusty vigor. The afternoon’s languor is startled by the frequent report of the shotgun. Now there is silence, unbroken save by the cry of a distant hawk or the rustle of the wind as it stirs the grassy billows. The crows come warily back to the dead limbs in the old cottonwood and rejoice in the calm that has again fallen over their domain. The wigwams of the cornfield bask in the warm sunshine, and within them, the mice gather their winter store of golden grain. The sky is blue as steel, and against its azure is seen a faraway wedge of cranes flying on unwearied wing to their southern refuge, and the melancholy music of their voices come faintly to the ear. A whistle, melodious but sad, calling “Bob White,” thrills through the air, but Bob White does not respond. His little history is finished. n
Editor’s Note: This story is from the December 1900 issue of Outing magazine.