TWO CRAYON SKETCHES.

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.Pope.Moral Essays.

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.

Pope.Moral Essays.

Who never mentions hell to ears polite.Pope.The Epistles.

Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

Pope.The Epistles.

From seeming evil still educing good.Thomson.Hymn.

From seeming evil still educing good.

Thomson.Hymn.

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,Rough hew them how we will.Shakspeare.Hamlet.

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them how we will.

Shakspeare.Hamlet.

On her white breast a cross of gold she wore,Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.Pope.Rape of the Lock.

On her white breast a cross of gold she wore,

Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.

Pope.Rape of the Lock.

At every word a reputation dies.Ditto.

At every word a reputation dies.

Ditto.

And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.Ditto.

And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

Ditto.

In wit a man; simplicity a child.Pope.Epitaph on Gay.

In wit a man; simplicity a child.

Pope.Epitaph on Gay.

The mob of gentlemen who write with ease.Pope.Imitations of Horace.

The mob of gentlemen who write with ease.

Pope.Imitations of Horace.

Even Palinurus nodded at the helm.Pope.The Dunciad.

Even Palinurus nodded at the helm.

Pope.The Dunciad.

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.Pope.Prologue to the Satires.

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.

Pope.Prologue to the Satires.

Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust.Ditto.

Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust.

Ditto.

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.Ditto.

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.

Ditto.

Damns with faint praise.Ditto.

Damns with faint praise.

Ditto.

To point a moral or adorn a tale.Dr. Johnson.Vanity of Human Wishes.

To point a moral or adorn a tale.

Dr. Johnson.Vanity of Human Wishes.

Good wine needs no bush.Shakspeare.As You Like It.

Good wine needs no bush.

Shakspeare.As You Like It.

A little round fat oily man of God.Thomson.The Castle of Indolence.

A little round fat oily man of God.

Thomson.The Castle of Indolence.

None but the brave deserve the fair.Dryden.Alexander’s Feast.

None but the brave deserve the fair.

Dryden.Alexander’s Feast.

Doubtless the pleasure is as greatOf being cheated, as to cheat.Butler.Hudibras, canto 3, part 2, lines 1 and 2.

Doubtless the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated, as to cheat.

Butler.Hudibras, canto 3, part 2, lines 1 and 2.

And bid the devil take thehindmost.Do.Canto 2, part 1, line 633.

And bid the devil take thehindmost.

Do.Canto 2, part 1, line 633.

And count the chickens ere they’re hatched.Do.Canto 3, part 2, line 924.

And count the chickens ere they’re hatched.

Do.Canto 3, part 2, line 924.

He that complies against his willIs of his own opinion still.Do.Canto 3, part 3, lines 547-8.

He that complies against his will

Is of his own opinion still.

Do.Canto 3, part 3, lines 547-8.

And look before you, ere you leap.Do.Canto 2, part 2, line 503.

And look before you, ere you leap.

Do.Canto 2, part 2, line 503.

TWO CRAYON SKETCHES.

FROM LIFE STUDIES.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word,Compact of human breath in hate and dreadAnd exultation, skied us overhead—An atmosphere whose lightning was the swordScathing the cedars of the world.—That name consumed the silence of the snowsIn Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid!The mimic eagles dared what Nature’s didAnd over-rushed her mountainous reposeIn search of eyries; and the Egyptian riverMingled the same word with its grand—“For Ever.”Elizabeth Barrett.

Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word,

Compact of human breath in hate and dread

And exultation, skied us overhead—

An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword

Scathing the cedars of the world.

—

That name consumed the silence of the snows

In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid!

The mimic eagles dared what Nature’s did

And over-rushed her mountainous repose

In search of eyries; and the Egyptian river

Mingled the same word with its grand—“For Ever.”

Elizabeth Barrett.

’Tis but a child’s play, friend, pass on, nor wait—Take heed, that childish play foretells the future fate.Anon.

’Tis but a child’s play, friend, pass on, nor wait—

Take heed, that childish play foretells the future fate.

Anon.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon. The high trees cast long shadows on the grass, and the glorious golden sunlight beamed richly over the landscape. In a thickly wooded park, whose long, winding walks were bordered by the rhododendron, and overshadowed by forest-trees, were several young girls. They were simply dressed, and quite young, at the season of early girlhood—thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen might have been their ages—certainly not older. They were all graceful, delicate little creatures—American girls and women almost always are, as foreigners have remarked. Two or three only, however, were decidedly pretty.

“I am tired of walking,” said one; “let’s stop here a little while, and play something.”

The girl had well chosen the spot, for it was beautiful enough to have tempted the faërys—if any there be—to make of it, a play-ground. The wood skirted a stream, rising from its shores in little undulating hills, and the owner had availed himself of this, in arranging the walks in his wood, so that by slightly assisting Nature, these walks seemed terraced. The place selected, was where one of the walks widened a little—the hilly terrace rose gently behind it, forming a turfy bank that served for seats, and forest-trees crested the little summit of this hill. Beneath the walk, the ground-swell shaded by trees, sloped down to the stream-side, and between the foliage could be seen the glittering wavelets, dancing along in the golden atmosphere shed around them by the glorious setting sun.

Had these little rambling girls been a shadow older, or breathing a more poetic imaginative atmosphere than their sunny American home, they might have sat and dreamed romances, out of “old Poesy’s Myths,” and fancied that,

“That spring head of crystal waters,Babbled to them stories of her lovely daughters,The beauteous blue-bells and the lilies fair.”

“That spring head of crystal waters,

Babbled to them stories of her lovely daughters,

The beauteous blue-bells and the lilies fair.”

But no! the influences of their associations in their home-lives, rendered their imaginations—for imaginations they had—less dreamy, less poetical.

This work-day atmosphere in which we striving, success-seeking Americans live and breathe, deprives even our childhood’s day-dreams of romance and poësy, and who can say whether it be well or not? The mysterious voice of the Past says, “All that is permitted is needed,” therefore, let this American Judaic spirit roll on, the Nineteenth Century needs it, to perform her part of the world’s development.

If we return to our little wood-ramblers and listen to their gossip, we shall see how tangible and real were the subjects of their day-dreams, though quite as improbable, apparently, as the old imaginings of Enchantment and Faëry Land.

“Oh,” lisped a little coquettish thing, the pet evidently of the group, whose light, floating ringlets threw faint shadows over her round, white shoulders, “let’s play that I’m a duchess, and you are all come to visit me at my ducal palace. These are my grounds, and some of you shall be my ladies.” Thereupon the little witch threw her faëry form on the turfy bank, in a languishing position, and prepared to take upon her little self, all the state and dignity of a duchess.

“Not I for one,” said the tallest of the group, although the rest seemed half disposed to enter into the proposed play. “If there’s to be any duchess playing, I’ll be the titled lady. Yes, I will be your princess, and hold here my regal court.”

If princesses have a divine right to beauty, the girl might have been one of the most royal. She had, for so young a girl, a presence and bearing remarkable for dignity, and her form gave promise of fine development. Her head was well placed on a beautiful neck and drooping shoulders. Her rich, dark hair was cut short and brushed back from a low Medicean brow, and it clustered in thick, close curls around the back of her well-shaped head and white neck. Although her brow was low, and her chin almost voluptuously full, her keen, black eyes, archedeye-brows, that in some moods almost met over a nose that was delicate and handsome in shape, and whose nostrils trembled and dilated with every shadow of feeling, and a mouth well shaped, but firm in expression, all told that the girl had a haughty, imperious spirit, one such as a princess might have; and she carried herself as though she would have said, as Marie Antoinette did, when some one remarked her erect bearing,

“Were I not a queen, I suppose, people would call me insolent.”

“Duchess and princess indeed!” exclaimed one of the girls, contemptuously. “How absurd to talk such nonsense. Who ever heard of such duchesses and princesses as you’d make?”

“And why not, mademoiselle?” asked the would-be princess.

“Now Caro is grand,” laughed one of the girls; “don’t you take notice, girls, she always calls us mademoiselles, when she wants to take state?”

But the girl repeated her question, haughtily, without heeding the saucy interruption. Her manner seemed to intimidate the other, and pleased with her apparent victory, she continued, drawing herself up to her full height, and looking even more stately.

“Yes, I will be a princess. Why should I not be? My grandmother was a queen, and my great uncle an emperor. I will give you all grand titles, too. You, Lina, I will make a countess, for you are too little and delicate, pet-bird, to be a duchess—that sounds too matronly for you; but as for you, Mademoiselle Helen, you shall only be a simple maid of honor, and may be, lady of the bed-chamber after awhile, if you stop sneering at my rank.”

“Oh Caro and Lina,” said Helen, impatiently, “don’t be so silly; it is ridiculous. You are always spoiling our walks with these foolish make-believes.”

“What do you mean, Mademoiselle Helen?” asked Caro, with flashing eyes, and nostrils dilating with unrepressed indignation.

“I mean just what I say, Caro; that you always make yourself absurd and disagreeable by wanting us to play such vain, silly plays; and you do Lina no good either, for her little head is filled now with nothing else but nonsensical notions that will give her a great deal of trouble. I am a year or two older than you, Miss, and can see the folly of all this; but even if I were not, I hope I should not be such a silly little fool as to try to imagine I was something grander than I was not, and what is more, never will be.”

Caro’s face grew crimson, and she bit her full, red lip until the rich blood nearly started from it while she listened to this irritating speech. When it was concluded, she threw up her head and exclaimed in a voice choked with passion,

“This comes of associating with plebians.”

“Plebians, indeed!” said Helen, indignantly.

“Yes, plebians, mademoiselle,” answered Caro, looking steadily and haughtily at her. “You are a plebian when compared with me, for my grandmother was a crowned queen, and my uncle the great Emperor Napoleon; am I not, then, a princess of most regal descent? And you, Lina, darling,” she continued, putting her arm patronizingly around the little creature, “I only hope I may be as my grandmother was, a throned queen, then I would do more than put grand notions in your head. I would put great titles to your name, and brave retinues to back them.”

“Madame, your mother, most royal princess,” said the annoying Helen, with provoking coolness, “has the misfortune, however, at present, to be the instructress of the daughter of a plebian country lawyer.”

“It is a misfortune, mademoiselle,” answered Caro.

The girls drew together a little frightened; they knew a crisis was coming, for many times before had they witnessed similar “passages at arms,” between the two girls, but never such a threatening one.

“Never mind Caro,” said little Lina, “let’s leave Helen; she’s always so cross, and says such ill-bred things. We’ll go and play by ourselves. Youshallbe our queen, and I will be your little countess, or any thing you want me to be. The girls will go with us, too; wont you, girls?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the now irritated Helen, for she saw that most of the girls were disposed to take Caro’s part. “This is amusing, truly, to see the daughter of a plain American country store-keeper playing countess, and the granddaughter of a French inn-keeper taking state and royal airs over simple republicans.”

Helen’s tantalizing expressions might have caused one thing royal—a “battle royal”—for, although they were little young ladies, they were sometimes apt to forget the rules of good breeding daily enjoined upon them—but fortunately they were interrupted. Some ladies joined them—mothers and elder sisters of the girls; for this park-like wood was a favorite afternoon resort for the inhabitants of the little village of B——. The angry retort trembled on Caro’s tongue, and frowning glances were exchanged between them; for awhile their quarrel was suspended—but only for awhile; the next day would be sure to renew the scene. After a little talk with the ladies, Caro and Lina withdrew to another part of the grounds, followed by their adherents, which we must confess, comprised the greater number of the school; and the sturdy little republican, Helen, was in the minority, for only two or three of the older girls espoused her cause. As they left, one of the remaining girls whispered to Helen, with a merry laugh,

“See, Caro and Lina are going off to hold their Court. Had we not better set up a rival one? We will elect you lady president, or cabinet officer’s lady, or senator’s wife. You would not, I suppose, take any less republican title from us, and, of course, it would be hardly safe or proper to send you ministress plenipotentiary to adjust difficulties between the two governments.”

Helen laughed contemptuously, as if she thought the whole affair too childish to be noticed. But her little heart was not much, if any, better than Caro’s and Lina’s. Like theirs it swelled with anger and pride, and although she was a good, sensible girl, she many times permitted her temper and a spirit of envious rivalry that had unconsciously sprung up between her and Caro, to master her, and make her forget the gentle courtesy and good-breeding which shouldcharacterize every woman, whether republican or aristocrat—because she is a woman.

——

Napoleon! he hath come again—borne homeUpon the popular ebbing heart—a seaWhich gathers its own wrecks perpetually,Majestically moaning. Give him room!Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn!And grave deep, ’neath the cannon moulded column!——Napoleon! the recovered nameShakes the old casements of the world! and weLook out upon the passing pageantry,Attesting that the Dead makes good his claimTo a Gaul grave—another kingdom won—The last—of few spans—by Napoleon!I think this nation’s tears poured thus together,Nobler than shouts!This funeral grander than crownings—This grave stronger than thrones.Elizabeth Barrett.

Napoleon! he hath come again—borne home

Upon the popular ebbing heart—a sea

Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,

Majestically moaning. Give him room!

Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn!

And grave deep, ’neath the cannon moulded column!

——Napoleon! the recovered name

Shakes the old casements of the world! and we

Look out upon the passing pageantry,

Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim

To a Gaul grave—another kingdom won—

The last—of few spans—by Napoleon!

I think this nation’s tears poured thus together,

Nobler than shouts!

This funeral grander than crownings—

This grave stronger than thrones.

Elizabeth Barrett.

There’s a lady—a prince’s daughter; she is proud and she is noble;And she treads the crimsoned carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is sweeping in her hair.Elizabeth Barrett.

There’s a lady—a prince’s daughter; she is proud and she is noble;

And she treads the crimsoned carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;

And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,

And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is sweeping in her hair.

Elizabeth Barrett.

Carriages rolled through the crowded streets of Paris, and a gay crowd thronged to the residence of the republican prince—the new French president. A stately levee was to be held, and Josephine’s grandson inherited Napoleon’s popularity! Time had avengedherwrongs, and Fortune, which had played such curious, elfish pranks with this great family, had set them once more aloft, but at their head she placed with strange justice the representative of the dethroned, divorced empress.

It was a brilliant sight. Ladies were there in gorgeous costume, glittering with diamonds, and gentlemen in full court-dress decked with orders. Near the President stood a group of beautiful women—the women of his family—his cousins, once, twice, and thrice removed. Among them was a lady who attracted the admiring gaze of more than one passer-by. She had a majestic presence, though still quite young—in the first flush of early womanhood. Her face was as beautiful as her form, which was faultless in its proportions. She had a clear, rich skin—eyes by turns flashing and serene, under “level fronting eye-lids”—a beautiful mouth, with the full lips gently and sweetly parted, and a Napoleonesque chin, that told her Buonaparte descent, with a lovely dimple denting its centre. Her thick, glossy hair was dressed with classical severity, for they told her, her head was like the Princess Pauline’s, and made her bind it with a broad coronet, woven of her own rich hair. She was beautiful enough to have inspired another Canova to sculpture her also as a Venus.

A buzz was heard, while the Russian Ambassador presented a gentleman and lady with much consideration to the president. The young cousin of the president started, and a brilliant flush crimsoned her cheek—whose only fault, if fault it could be, was its delicate pallor—as she looked at the lady newly presented, and heard her title—the Countess O——.

The countess was a fair young creature with a delicate sylph-like figure, and her hair fell in soft, brown ringlets, as if wishing to burst from the confinement of the jeweled comb and costly bandeau, in order to shade her timid beauty. Many remarked the purity and simplicity of her style, and low murmurs told the inquiring stranger, that though bearing a foreign name and title, she was said to be an American.

The crowd increased, and the circle around the president gradually separated, making room for the throng ofnobodyswho wished to be presented. The hum of conversation grew louder, and though the new president exacted much ceremony, it was plain to be seen that etiquette did not forbid the merry laugh, nor the sparklingrepartée.

A little group of ladies and gentlemen stood near a window, laughing and chatting with all that sprightliness with which the French people of society know so well how to enliven conversation. Some of the company passed by, promenading. A lady of the group at the window, lifted her arm—it must have been unconsciously, certainly it was done gracefully, and in so doing, entangled her magnificent diamond bracelet in the costly laceberthéof a lady passing by.

The owner of the offending bracelet was the cousin of the President, the lady of theberthéthe fair Russian countess. The first bent over as if to disentangle the sparkling clasp from the delicate meshes of the lace, and her manner, repulsed all offers of assistance from those standing by. It seemed a difficult task, however, and she had quite time enough to say more than the mere apologies required, and surely she did say more than those standing near them heard, for the mere “Pardonnez moi Madame je vous prie,” could not have caused the slight start which the pretty little countess gave, nor the delicate flush that tinged her fair temples, when the French lady’s glowing cheek rested near hers, in bending down to disentangle her ornament.

“Lina,” said the president’s cousin, in a low, laughing tone, that gurgled up like the melody of foam-bells in a stream, “who would have thought when Helen Morris used to laugh at us in America, that our childish imaginings would come true? Why, darling, you are not only a countess, but you are wedded to the first and oldest blood of Europe; and I, dear one—yes, I—if not an acknowledged princess, will yet be a queen.”

The bracelet was disengaged—theberthéreleased. The French lady made a low courtesy to the countess, with her eyes bent upon the ground—and they parted.

Fortune is a capricious goddess, and surely the wildest, most improbable romances ever imagined, could not surpass, scarcely equal, the strange reverses the blind goddess of the wheel has brought to the family of the great “World-Actor of the Nineteenth Century,”Napoleon.

QUAIL AND QUAIL SHOOTING.

———

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.

———

THE AMERICAN QUAIL, OR VIRGINIA PARTRIDGE.(Ortyx Virginianus.Perdix Virginianus.)

November is upon us—hearty, brown, healthful November, harbinger of his best joys to the ardent sportsman, and best beloved to him of all the months of the great annual cycle; November, with its clear, bracing, western breezes; its sun, less burning, but how far more beautiful than that of fierce July, as tempered now and softened by the rich, golden haze of Indian summer, quenching his torrent rays in its mellow, liquid lustre, and robing the distant hills with wreaths of purple light, half mist, half shrouded sunshine; November, with its wheat and buckwheat stubbles, golden or bloody red; with its sere maize leaves rustling in the breeze, whence the quail pipes incessant; with its gay woodlands flaunting in their many-colored garb of glory; with its waters more clearly calm, more brilliantly transparent than those of any other season; November, when the farmer’s toils have rendered their reward, and his reaped harvests glut his teeming garners, so that he too, like the pent denizen of swarming cities, may take his leisure with his gun “in the wide vale, or by the deep wood-side,” and enjoy the rapture of those sylvan sports which he may not participate in sweltering July, in which they are, alas! permitted by ill-considered legislation, in every other state, save thine, honest and honorable Massachusetts.[2]

In truth there is no period of the whole year so well adapted, both by the seasonable climate, and the state of the country, shorn of its crops, and not now to be injured by the sportsman’s steady stride, or the gallop of his high-bred setters, both by the abundance of game in the cleared stubbles and the sere woodlands, and by the aptitude of the brisk, bracing weather for the endurance of fatigue, and the enjoyment of manful exercise, as this our favorite November.

In this month, the beautiful Ruffed Grouse, that mountain-loving, and man-shunning hermit, steals down from his wild haunts among the giant rhododendrons, and evergreen rock-calmias, to nearer woodskirts, and cedar-brakes margining the red buckwheat stubbles, to be found there by the staunch dogs, and brought to bag by the quick death-shot, “at morn and dewy eve,” without the toil and torture, often most vain and vapid, of scaling miles on miles of mountain-ledges, struggling through thickets of impenetrable verdure among the close-set stems of hemlock, pine, or juniper, only to hear the startled rush of an unseen pinion, and to pause, breathless, panting, and outdone, to curse, while you gather breath for a renewed effort, the bird which haunts such covert, and the covert which gives shelter to such birds.

In this month, if no untimely frost, or envious snowflurry come, premature, to chase him to the sunny swamps of Carolina and the rice-fields of Georgia, the plump, white-fronted, pink-legged autumn Woodcock, flaps up from the alder-brake with his shrill whistle, and soars away, away, on a swift and powerful wing above the russet tree-tops, to be arrested only by the instinctive eye and rapid finger of the genuine sportsman; and no longer as in faint July to be bullied and bungled to death by every German city pot-hunter, or every pottering rustic school-boy, equipped and primed for murder, on his Saturday’s half holyday.

In this month, the brown-jacketed American hare, which our folkwillpersist in callingRabbit—though it neither lives in warrens, nor burrows habitually under ground, and though it breeds not every month in the year, which are the true distinctive characteristics of the Rabbit—is in his prime of conditions, the leverets of the season, plump and well grown; and the old bucks and does, recruited after the breeding season, in high health and strength, and now legitimate food for gunpowder, legitimate quarry for the chase of the merry beagles.

In this month especially, the Quail, the best-loved and choicest object of the true sportsman’s ambition; the bird which alone affords more brilliant and exciting sport than all the rest beside; the bravest on the wing, and the best on the board; the swiftest and strongest flyer of any feathered game; the most baffling to find, the most troublesome to follow up, and when followed up and found, the most difficult to kill in style; the beautiful American Quail is in his highest force and feather; and in this month, according to the laws of all the States, even the most rigorous and stringent in preservation, killable legitimately under statute.

In New York, generally, the close-time for the Quail ends with October, and he may not be slain until the first day of November; in New Jersey,ortygicidecommences on the 25th of October, in Massachusetts and Connecticut on some day between the 15th of the past and the first of the present month; in Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland, where they are something more forward, as breeding earlier in the season than in the Eastern States, on the first of October; and in Canada West, where they are exceedingly abundant, on the first of September; which is, for many reasons, entirely too early, as hereafter I shall endeavor to demonstrate.

In my own opinion, the first of November, and even the middle of October, are too late for the termination of the Quail’s close-time, inasmuch as five-sevenths of the broods in ordinarily forward seasons are full-grown and strong on the wing, as well as all the crops off the ground, by the first of October; and although the late, second, or third broods may be undersized, they are still well able to take care of themselves in case the parent birds are killed; whereas, on account of their immature size, they are safe from the legitimate shot; and, on account of their unsaleability in market to the restaurant, from the poaching pot-shot also.

I should, therefore, myself, be strongly inclined to advocate the adoption of one common day, and that day the first of October, for the close-time of all our upland game; the English Snipe alone excepted. Touching the reasons for postponing the day of Woodcock-shooting, a notice will be found in our July number, and an extended discussion in my Field Sports, vol. I. pp. 169 to 200. Of the Quail, in regard to this point, I have said enough here, unless this; that, in my opinion, there is far more need to protect them from the trap during the wintry snows, than from the gun in the early autumn; the latter cannot possibly at any time exterminate the race; the former not only easilymay, but actuallydoesall but annihilate the breed, whenever the snow falls and lies deep during any weeks of December, during the whole of which month the pursuit and sale of this charming little bird is legal.

Could I have my way, the close-time for Quail should end on the last day of September; and the shooting season end on the twenty-fourth day of December; before which date snow now rarely lies continuously in New Jersey, Southern New York, or Pennsylvania. Why I would anticipate the termination of the close-time, in reference to the Ruffed Grouse, I shall state at length, when I come to treat of that noble bird, in our December issue; to which month I have attributed it, because it is then that itis, though in my opinion,it ought not to be, most frequently seen on our tables. While on the topic of preservation, I will mention a fact, which certainly is not widely, much less generally known, among farmers; namely, that this merry and domestic little bird is one of his best friends and assistants in the cultivation of his lands. During nine or ten months of the year he subsists entirely on the seeds of many of the most troublesome and noxious weeds and grasses, which infest the fields, more especially those of the ragwort, the dock, and the briar. It is believed, I might almost say ascertained, that he never plucks any kind of grain, even his own loved buckwheat when ripe, from the stalk, but only gleans the fallen seeds from the stubbles after harvest, so that while he in nothing deteriorates the harvest to be ingathered, he tends in the highest degree to the preservation of clean and unweeded fields and farms; indeed, when it is taken into consideration that each individual Quail consumes daily nearly two gills of weed-seed, it will be at once evident that a few bevies of these little birds, carefully and assiduously preserved on a farm, will do more toward keeping it free of weeds, than the daily annual labor of a dozen farm-servants. This preservation will not be counteracted or injured by a moderate and judicious use of the gun in the autumnal months; for the bevies need thinning, especially of the cock-birds, which invariably outnumber the hens, and which, if unable to pair, from a want of mates, form into little squads or companies of males, which remain barren, and become the deadly enemies of the young cocks of the following year, beating them off and dispersing them; though, strange to say, they will themselves never mate again, nor do aught, after remaining unpaired during one season, to propagate their species. The use of the trap, on the contrary, destroying whole bevies at a swoop, where the gun, even in the most skillful hands, rarely much more than decimates them, may, in a single winter’s day, if many traps be set, destroy the whole stocking of a large farm for years, if not forever. I have myself invariably remarked, since my attention was first called to the fact, that those farms which are best stocked with Quail, are invariably the cleanest of weeds; and a right good sportsman, and good friend of mine, working on the same baseper contra, says that, in driving hisshooting-cart and dogs through a country, he has never found it worth his while to stop and beat a district full of weedy and dirty farms, as such never contain Quail.

If this may lead our farmers to consider that every live Quail does far more good on the farm, than the shilling earned by his capture in theomnivoroustrap; and therefore to prohibit their sons and farm-boys from exterminating them at their utmost need, when food is scarce, and shelter hard to find, my words will not have been altogether wasted, nor my object unattained.

Were I a farmer, I would hang it over my kitchen fireplace, inscribed in goodly capitals—“Spare the Quail! If you would have clean fields and goodly crops, spare the Quail! So shall you spare your labor.”

And now, in a few words, we will on to their nomenclature, their distinctive marks, their regions of inhabitation, seasons, haunts, and habits; and last, not least, how, when, and where lawfully, honorably, sportsmanly, and gnostically, you may and shall, kill them.

I will not, however, here pause long to discuss the point, whether they ought to be termed Quail or Partridge. Scientifically and practically they are neither, but a connecting link between the twosubgenera. True Partridge, nor true Quail, veryperdix, nor verycoturnix, exists at all anywhere in America. Our bird, an intermediate bird between the two, named by the naturalistsOrtyx, which is the Greek term for true Quail, is peculiar to America, of which but one species, that before us, is found in the United States, except on the Pacific coast and in California, where there are many other beautiful varieties. Our bird is known everywhere East, and everywhere North-west of Pennsylvania, and in Canada, as the Quail—everywhere South as the Partridge. In size, plumage, flight, habits, and cry, it more closely resembles the European Quail; in some structural points, especially the shape and solidity of the bill, the European Partridge. On the whole, I deem it properly termedAmerican Quail; but whether of the two it shall be called, matters little, as no other bird on this continent can clash with it, so long as we avoid the ridicule of calling one bird by two different terms, on the opposite sides of one river—the Delaware. The stupid blunder of calling the Ruffed Grouse, Pheasant, and Partridge, in the South and East, is a totally different kind of misnomer; as that bird bears no resemblance, however distant, to either of the two species, and has a very good English name of his own,videlicet, “Ruffed or Tippeted Grouse,” by which alone he is known to men of brains or of sportsmanship. With regard to our Quail, it is different, as he has no distinctive English name of his own; but is, even by naturalists, indiscriminately known as Quail and Partridge. The former is certainly the truer appellation, as he approximates more closely to that sub-genus. We wish much that this question could be settled; which we fear, now, that it never can be, from the want of any sportingauthority, in the country, to pass judgment. The “Spirit of the Times,” though still as well supported and as racy as ever, has, I regret to say, ceased to be an authority, and has become a mere arena wherein for every scribbler to discuss and support his own undigested and crude notions without consideration or examination; and wherein those who know the least, invariably fancying themselves to know the most, vituperate with all the spite of partisan personality, every person who having learned more by reading, examination of authorities, and experience than they, ventures to express an opinion differing from their old-time prejudices, and the established misnomers of provincial or sectional vulgarism.

But to resume, the American Quail, or “Partridge of the South,” is too well known throughout the whole of America, from the waters of the Kennebec on the East, and the Great Lakes on the North—beyond which latter, except on the South-western peninsula of Canada West, lying between Lakes Erie, St. Clair, and Huron, they are scarcely to be found—is too well known, almost to the extreme South, to need description. Their beauty, their familiar cry, their domestic habits during the winter, when they become half civilized, feeding in the barn-yards, and often roosting under the cattle-sheds with the poultry, render them familiar to all men, women, boys and fools throughout the regions, which they inhabit. It is stated by ornithologists, that they abound from Nova Scotia and the northern parts of Canada to Florida and the Great Osage villages; but this is incorrect, as they rarely are seen eastward of Massachusetts;neverin Nova Scotia, or Canada East; and range so far as Texas, and the edges of the great American salt desert. The adult male bird differs from the hen in having its chaps and a remarkable gorget on the throat and lower neck, pure white, bordered with jetty black; which parts, in the young male and the adult female, are bright reddish-yellow; the upper parts of both are beautifully dashed and freckled with chestnut and mahogany-brown, black, yellow, gray, and pure white; the under parts pure white, longitudinally dashed with brownish red, and transversely streaked with black arrow-headed marks. The colors of the male are all brighter, and more definite, than in the female.

Everywhere eastward of the Delaware the Quail is resident, never rambling far from the haunts in which he is bred. Everywhere to the westward he is in the later autumn migratory, moving constantly on foot, and never flying except when flushed or compelled to cross streams and water-courses, from the west eastward; the farther west, the more marked is this peculiarity.

The Quail pairs early in March; begins to lay early in May, in a nest made on the surface of the ground, usually at the bottom of a tussock or tuft of grass, her eggs being pure white, and from ten to thirty-two in number, though about fourteen is probably the average of the bevies. The period of incubation is about four weeks, the young birds run the instant they clip the shell, and fly readily before they have been hatched a fortnight. So soon as the first brood is well on the wing, the cock takes charge of it, and the hen proceeds to lay and hatch a second, the male bird and first brood remaining in the close vicinity, and the parents, I doubt not, attending the labor of incubation and attending the young. This I have long suspected; but I saw so many proofs of it, in company of my friend and fellow sportsman, “Dinks,” while shooting together near Fort Malden, in Canada West—where we found, in many instances, two distinct bevies of different sizes with a single pair of old birds, when shooting early in September of last year—that we were equally convinced of the truth of the fact, and of the unfitness of the season.

In October, with the exception of a very few late broods, they are fit for the gun; and then, while the stubbles are long, and the weeds and grasses rank, they lie the best and are the least wild on the wing. The early mornings and late afternoons are the fittest times for finding them, when they are on the run, and feeding in the edges of wheat and rye stubbles, or buckwheat patches bordering on woodlands. In the middle of the day they either lie up in little brakes and bog-meadows, or bask on sandy banks, and craggy hill-sides, when they are collected into little huddles, and are then difficult to find. As soon as flushed, they pitch into the thickest neighboring covert, whether bog-meadow, briar-patch, cedar-brake, ravine, or rough corn-stubble, they can find, their flight being wild, rapid, and impetuous, but rarely very long, or well sustained. As they unquestionably possess the mysterious power,whether voluntary or involuntary, of holding in their scent, for a short time after alighting, and are difficultly found again till they have run, I recommend it, as by far the better way, to mark them down well, and beat for another bevy, until you hear them calling to each other; then lose no time in flushing them again, when they are sure to disperse, and you to have sport with them.

Myself, I prefer setters for their pursuit, as more dashing, more enduring, and abler to face briars—others prefer pointers, as steadier on less work, and better able to fag without water. Either, well broke, are good—ill broke, or unbroke, worthless. Still give me setters—Russian or Irish specially! Quail fly very fast, and strong, especially in covert, and require the whole charge to kill them dead and clean. At cross shots, shoot well ahead; at rising shots, well above; and at straight-away shots, a trifle below your birds; and an oz. ¼ of No. 8, early, and of No. 7, late, will fetch them in good style. And so good sport to you, kind reader; for this, if I err not, is doomed to be a crack Quail season.

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