ble as ever.

When the bright object dropped this time, curiosity to get possession
of it was stronger than my interest in the game. Besides, the apples
were waiting. I jumped up, scattering the crows in wild confusion; but
as they streamed away I fancied that there was still more of the
excitement of play than of alarm in their flight and clamor.

The bright object which the leader carried proved to be the handle of
a glass cup or pitcher. A fragment of the vessel itself had broken off
with the handle, so that the ring was complete. Altogether it was just
the thing for the purpose--bright, and not too heavy, and most
convenient for a crow to seize and carry. Once well gripped, it would
take a good deal of worrying to make him drop it.

Who first was "it," as children say in games? Was it a special
privilege of the crow who first found the talisman, or do the crows
have some way of counting out for the first leader? There is a
school-house down that same old dusty road. Sometimes, when at play
there, I used to notice the crows stealing silently from tree to tree
in the woods beyond, watching our play, I have no doubt, as I now had
watched theirs. Only we have grown older, and forgotten how to play;
and they are as much boys as ever. Did they learn their game from
watching us at tag, I wonder? And do they know coram, and
leave-stocks, and prisoners' base, and bull-in-the-ring as well? One
could easily believe their wise little black heads to be capable of
any imitation, especially if one had watched them a few times, at work
and play, when they had no idea they were being spied upon.

VIII. ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.

[Illustration]

The cheery whistle of a quail recalls to most New England people a
vision of breezy upland pastures and a mottled brown bird calling
melodiously from the topmost slanting rail 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 whether he prognosticates or introduces
himself, his voice is always a welcome one. Those who know the call
listen with pleasure, and speedily come to love the bird that makes
it.

Bob White has another call, more beautiful than his boyish whistle,
which comparatively few have heard. It is a soft liquid yodeling,
which the male bird uses to call the scattered flock together. One who
walks in the woods at sunset sometimes hears it from a tangle