h it
tapers gradually to a point. 2. Swells, waves. 3. Se-ren'i-ty, quietness,
calmness. 5. Ex'qui-site, exceedingly nice, giving rare satisfaction.
Sculp'ture, carved work. Mon'o-chro-mist, one who paints in a single
color. Pol-y-chro'ic, given to the use of many colors. 7. Pin'na-cles,
high, spirelike points. Ob-lique'ly, slantingly. Ir-re-press'i-ble, not to
be restrained.

Notes--Only about one eighth of an iceberg appears above the surface of
the water. When one side of it grows heavier than another, through unequal
melting and the action of the waves, the whole mass rolls over in the
water in the manner so well described in this lesson.

LVII. ABOUT QUAIL.

William Post Hawes (b. 1803, d.1842) was born in New York City. and was a
graduate of Columbia College. He was a lawyer by profession. His writings
consist mainly of essays, contributed to various newspapers and magazines,
and show great descriptive power. He was a frequent contributor to the
"Spirit of the Times," under the title of "Cypress, Jr.," on various
sporting topics. After his death a collection of his writings was
published in two volumes, entitled, "Sporting Scenes" and "Sundry
Sketches."

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 visi