Ways of Wood Folk

ail 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 whethe

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

g in from every direction. Once in a lifetime, perhaps, he may see them gather in a close circle-tails together, heads out, like the spokes of a wh

covey together, or to locate the male birds, which generally answer the leader's call. I have frequently called a flock of the b

epresentatives of the pheasant family from all over the earth that were running about among the rocks and artificial copses. Some were almost

ush. But suddenly there was a touch of naturalness. That beautiful brown bird with the shapely body and the quick, nervous run! No one could mistake him; it was Bob White. And with him c

oos screamed; noisy parrots squawked hideously. Children were playing and shouting near by. In the yard itself fifty birds were singing or cryi

ooking, listening. Another call, and he came running toward me. Others appeared from every direction, and soon a score of quail were r

iful in sunset light; the hollows were rich in autumn glory. The pasture brook sang on its way to the river; a robin called from a crimson maple; a