1. The quail is peculiarly a domestic bird, and is attached to his
birthplace and the home of his forefathers. The various members of the
aquatic families educate their children in the cool summer of the far
north, and bathe their warm bosoms in July in the iced waters of Hudson
Bay; but when Boreas scatters the rushes where they had builded their
bedchambers, they desert their fatherland, and fly to disport in the sunny
waters of the south.

2. The songsters of the woodland, when their customary crops of insects
and berries are cut off in the fall, gather themselves to renew their
loves and get married in more genial climes. Presently, the groves so
vocal, and the sky so full, shall be silent and barren. The "melancholy
days" will soon be here; only thou, dear Bob White, wilt remain.

3. The quail is the bird for me. He is no rover, no emigrant. He stays at
home, and is identified with the soil. Where the farmer works, he lives,
and loves, and whistles. In budding springtime, and in scorching
summer--in bounteous autumn, and in barren winter, his voice is heard from
the same bushy hedge fence, and from his customary cedars. Cupidity and
cruelty may drive him to the woods, and to seek more quiet seats; but be
merciful and kind to him, and he will visit your barnyard, and sing for
you upon the boughs of the apple tree by your gateway.

4. When warm May first wooes the young flowers to open and receive her
breath, then begin the cares and responsibilitie of wedded life. Away fly
the happy pair to seek some grassy tussock, where, safe from the eye of
the hawk and the nose of the fox, they may rear their expectant brood in
peace.