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.