VIII. ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.


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The cheery whistle of a quail recalls to most New England people a
vision of breezy upland pastures and a mottled brown bird calling
melodiously from the topmost slanting rail of an old sheep-fence.
Farmers say he foretells the weather, calling,
_More-wet_--_much-more-wet!_ Boys say he only proclaims his name, _Bob
White! I'm Bob White!_ But whether he prognosticates or introduces
himself, his voice is always a welcome one. Those who know the call
listen with pleasure, and speedily come to love the bird that makes
it.

Bob White has another call, more beautiful than his boyish whistle,
which comparatively few have heard. It is a soft liquid yodeling,
which the male bird uses to call the scattered flock together. One who
walks in the woods at sunset sometimes hears it from a tangle of
grapevine and bullbrier. If he has the patience to push his way
carefully through the underbrush, he may see the beautiful Bob on a
rock or stump, uttering the softest and most musical of whistles. He
is telling his flock that here is a nice place he has found, where
they can spend the night and be safe from owls and prowling foxes.

If the visitor be very patient, and lie still, he will presently hear
the pattering of tiny feet on the leaves, and see the brown birds come