In August there is not a quail to all seeming in the land, but suddenly, as the spring advances, there comes from every thicket of grass and square of growing corn on the coast the whistling call of the male bird--`phee--phe--yew' calling in bird language, `where are you?--where are you?' and the answering cry of the modest mate--`phee-- phee'--"here--here." Whence do they come--these thousands of birds that throng along the coast? On that point regularly as September came round, as the 12-bore gun was taken down, and the cartridges filled with Number 6, we talked greatly, setting forth many theories. Silas Topper was of opinion that the quails spent their time in travelling round the continent of Africa in four huge armies, covering 500 miles from front to rear, and that while one was passing along the southern coast, the second army would be going north somewhere above the Zambesi, while the third would be traversing the shores of the Mediterranean, and the fourth skirting of Gold Coast. We all agreed that was a very good theory, and one deserving more credence than the crude, but positive, assertion of Amos Topper that the quail was originally a frog. "It stands to reason," Amos would say, "that a quail is developed from a frog. If 'tain't so, what becomes of all the frogs?--tell me that. Take a caterpillar. A caterpillar comes from an egg, and a cocoon comes from a caterpillar, and a butterfly from a cocoon." "But a quail isn't a butterfly." "Chuts! A tadpole comes from an egg, doesn't it? Well, a frog comes from a tadpole, and a quail comes from a frog. That's clear enough, ain't it?" Then, of course, the argument would start, and this particular September morning we had got well into the frog theory when old Abe Pike came along. "I don't mind if I do," he said, as he sat down and selected a plump bird that Amos had carefully prepared for his own eating. He had opened it out by a cut down the breast bone, laid the broad bare back on the wood coals, and in the cup-like cavities of the breast had placed a pat of butter, with pepper and salt. The juices of the bird had gathered in these cavities, and Amos had just cut off a slice of bread to serve as a plate when old Pike forestalled him. "That's my bird," said Topper, fiercely. "Just yeard you say 'twas a frog," grunted Abe, as he dug his knife into the earth to clean it. "I said it was a frog, but it's a sure enough bird now--blow you!" "Go slow, sonny, go slow," said Abe, between the mouthfuls. "Stick to one thing at a time. Once a frog always a frog." "Humph," said Amos, as he picked out another bird from the heap. "I s'pose you never heard frogs whistling of a night?" "Well, of course." "What do they whistle for, eh, if they're not fitting themselves for the bird life--tell me that?" And Amos looked at us triumphantly. "They whistle for the rain, you donderkop." "P'raps, then, you can tell us where these birds come from, as you're so mighty clever."