er the life out of me. They creep in
through the cracks and crannies and eat the grain. If I go over by the
grain chest, the first thing I know, there's a whir, and a cloud of them
darts up in front of my face. Sometimes it makes my heart come right up
in my mouth. I wish there wasn't a whale round the place."

"Quails, Bill. What makes you call them whales?"

"Whales I heard them called when I was a boy, and whales they are to
me."

[Sidenote: CATCHING QUAIL]

"Perhaps you think it was one of these whales that swallowed Jonah?"

"I never did think so, Benny. But if he did, it was a miracle, sure
enough."

Davy helped me make a figure-4 trap to catch them. One Saturday morning
I met Edmund down at John Buckman's store, trading some butter and eggs
for tea and sugar.

"Come up to the house, Edmund. I've got a figure-4 trap; and we'll catch
some quail."

We set the trap, and put some grain under the box. Several quail flew
down, hopped about, and soon discovered the grain. While they were
pecking away at it, they sprang the trap. The box fell over them, and we
caught three.

"Now, Edmund, you find some grass-seed in the barn, and sprinkle it in a
line from the door. And I'll go and get the gun, and we'll take a raking
shot at them."

I went after the gun, and gave it to him. We hid in the barn, and before
long some more quail flew down and began to eat the seed. When they were
well in line he fired, and killed four and wounded several. The wounded
ones hopped about, cried out, and took on piteously, and acted like so
many little children in distress.

I did not like this at all, and Edmund seemed very much troubled.

"Come on, Edmund. We've got to kill those that are sure to die. The rest
we will put in a box with some hay, and perhaps they will get well."

We wrung the necks of three, and put the others in a box and covered it
over.

Then we looked at each other, and Edmund opened his basket, and let
those we had caught fly away.

"No more quail shooting for me, Ben. They're too human. By George, I
know just how a murderer feels."

One snowy winter day, Davy came to our barn, where I was foddering the
cattle, and said:--

"Ben, this storm will be over to-morrow, and will make fine snowshoeing.
Amos Locke is going with me fox-hunting, and we want you to come too."

[Sidenote: INVITATION TO A FOX HUNT]

"I don't know that I can go. Let's talk it over with my brother John."

When John heard us he