"Bob, Bob White," whistled Dannie.
"Bob, Bob White," answered the quail.
"I got my eye on that fellow," said Jimmy. "When he gets a little
larger, I'm going after him."
"Seems an awful pity to kill him," said Dannie. "People rave over
the lark, but I vow I'd miss the quail most if they were both
gone. They are getting scarce."
"Well, I didn't say I was going to kill the whole flock," said
Jimmy. "I was just going to kill a few for Mary, and if I don't,
somebody else will."
"Mary dinna need onything better than ane of her own fried
chickens," said Dannie. "And its no true about hunters. We've the
river on ane side, and the bluff on the other. If we keep up our
fishing signs, and add hunting to them, and juist shut the other
fellows out, the birds will come here like everything wild
gathers in National Park, out West. Ye bet things know where they
are taken care of, well enough."
Jimmy snipped a spray of purple ironwort with his corn-cutter,
and stuck it through his suspender buckle. "I think that would be
more fun than killin' them. If you're a dacint shot, and your gun
is clane" (Jimmy remembered the crow that had escaped with the
eggs at soap-making), "you pretty well know you're goin' to bring
down anything you aim at. But it would be a dandy joke to shell a
little corn as we husk it, and toll all the quail into Rainbow
Bottom, and then kape the other fellows out.
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