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Bobwhite Quail losest to the hearts of all American sportsmen is Bob White, the king of small gamebirds. In parts of the northern states he is called a quail, and in the South a partridge, but whatever be his colloquial appellation, he is recognized everywhere as the fittest reason for the existence of bird dogs and shotguns. While the ways of his life are sufficiently inscrutable to tax the powers of observation and out-of-doors logic of the keenest lover of shooting, there are so many different bevies in good quail country, distributed over such a comprehensive area of ground, that with reasonable dog talent one can count on a score or so of shots if the weather be not outrageous. And since Bob White is an all-the-year resident, raising his brood on the farm in summer, and staying―if there is anything left of him after the open season during the winter, one is not in danger of beginning one's week of shooting just on the day after he has departed for other lands, as may not be the case with snipe, rail, and woodcock. It is not necessary to make an early morning start after quail, for they do not care to move about in search of breakfast until the rising sun has warmed the earth a bit, and began to make inroads on the severity of the gray, frosty stubble. Eight o'çlock is a good hour; then the plump birds have run out of the dry clean leaves under the close tangle of catbriars that has sheltered them in the woods during the night. They make their way across the old wagon road far out into the open stubble field, and in the intervals of searching for ragweed seed and stray grains of wheat, they are cozily fluffing out their feathers to absorb all that is possible of the first delicious rays of the sun, which seems, as they stream through the fresh morning air, purer and more satisfying than the bolder glare of any succeeding hours. So much for a peep at the birds and the fields a mile away. At the farmhouse, canvas coats are donned, each heavy with a half a hundred shells of No. 8 shot, and a few bigger cartridges for a possible hawk or fox. Dash and Shot, the curly-haired English setters, are loosened from their kennels, while they strain at their chains in a perfect agony of delight over the unmistakable signs of hunting times. Away they rush―after a couple of severely checked starts before the snap is loose: They race and bark and delightedly wriggle themselves and make assurance doubly by taking sniffs of satisfaction at the feathery game pockets of your coat. They are called off from their antics that the energy may be saved for a time when it is needed, and you stride away, climbing fences, wading through briar patches, and skirting woods to the broad, rolling stubble fields touched by trees and heavy thickets. The maples are red and yellow, the hickories a rich gold, the oaks and chestnuts russet and green, the Virginia creeper of the brightest blood color, the few remaining gentains, a tender blue, the sumac a striking red-brown; the whole world about you is brilliant with colors, surprising one at every step as much as if it were the first frosty autumn day one had ever seen. The cool air striking your face is so invigorating that you want to shout, and the dogs are too intoxicated with the moment to remain at heel more than 30 seconds at a time. You sternly remind them to "Take care!" and in a few minutes they settle down to business, covering the ground in a proud canter, heads well up, noses eager, moist, and sensitive, their handsomely feathered tails thrashing from side to side in the joy of work. In ten minutes the wide expanse of this field is satisfactorily explored by such systemic, clean work, and you feel sure no covey of birds is there; for only the afternoon before they had been flushed in that very enclosure. As a matter of fact, this flock has played a trick, which is a favorite with Bob White. After feeding for days in that particular field, and there only, they had, when whistling together during the dusk of the day before, suddenly made up their minds to seek new quarters, and had swiftly run and flown through the growing dark of the woods, which furnished the night's lodging under the catbriars. Shouldering your gun, you plunge into the woods and go S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 5 9 ShOOTING PICTuReS Five evocative excerpts from the classic portfolio of twelve lithographs published in 1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons. Art by Arthur Burdett Fro • Text by arles D. Lanier