'Bob White! Are the peaches ripe? Not quite! May I have a bite?'

"Bob White! Are the peaches ripe? Not quite! May I have a bite?"

Last week, sitting in my favorite spot, my front porch, I could have sworn I heard that old familiar call "Bob White!" I put down the book that I was reading, cocked my head and listened, hoping I would hear the call again. But, as I did not hear it repeated, I began to wonder if it had been my imagination. Or it could have been a mockingbird, I suppose. But, unfortunately, whatever I heard, it was probably not the call of the Northern Bobwhite Quail which used to frequent the meadows and woodlands of my childhood.

My dad had taught me the above rhyme when I was a little girl. We would sit on our front porch on honeysuckle-scented summer evenings and hear that clear, whistle-like call, rising at the end, "Bob White!" I would climb up on his lap and we would say that poem together, then listen to see if mister Bobwhite would call again. And in those days, he did, and often.

But today, these birds are rarely seen, or heard. A 2013 article for "Sporting Life Arkansas" by Rex Nelson, states that in 1967, Arkansas bobwhites numbered around 30 per mile. By 1982 that number was down to seven, and in 2013, it was one or less.

My dad used to hunt these birds every winter, and I clearly remember him cleaning his gun after supper in preparation for a hunt the following day. I loved to smell the oil on the rags that he used to wipe down the barrels of his old shotgun, and I knew that, more than likely, we would be having fried quail and gravy for supper the next evening. The next day, he and one of his hunting buddies -- often it was Gentry-ite Joe Carl -- would put on their many-pocketed hunting jackets and set off with ole Tim and Dan, up over the hill or up the draw behind the barn.

These dogs were amazing. My dad always favored the liver and white pointers. He had "hunted birds" for many years before I came along. My sister tells the story of when he brought home his first dog, Lady, when the family lived in southern Illinois. My dad was working in the oil fields. This would have been in the early 1940s, and he was away from home for several days at a time. It seems my mom was not overly thrilled at him spending money on a dog, but Lady quickly became a part of the family.

During one of the times my dad was away from home, my sister, who was 5 or 6 years old at the time, decided to take Lady for a walk. She proceeded to tie a piece of string around her neck and off they went. Not too far away, a bunch of other dogs had congregated in a cornfield, and Lady broke the string and ran to join the other dogs. My sister was unable to retrieve her and went home empty handed. She said that every night during prayers her and my mom would pray that Lady would come home before daddy did.

Well, she didn't quite make it, but came close. Daddy returned one day and learned the sad story. The next morning, Lady was found sleeping in the leaves in the front yard, her paws worn raw. She had been gone about a week. No one knows where she had been, but she wore her feet raw coming home. Daddy kept this line of dogs all his life. Some of Lady's many offspring that shared the hunt with my dad were Sissy, Dan, Tim, Duke, Deuce and Mary Lou. I have pictures of Old Lady and Sissy hunting together with my dad. Sadly, I never knew these two fine dogs.

I got to see other dogs "work" on times that my dad would take me with him, just to scout for quail, not to hunt. We would walk behind the dogs and their fine noses until one of them would hit the "point" stance and, hopefully, the other would soon follow suit, daddy talking softly to them, giving instruction. Then the covey would explode from the brush with a wild whir of wings. And even though I knew it was coming, I always nearly jumped out of my skin.

But on those days that the hunt was real, I would wait excitedly for the hunters to return and, when they did, Daddy would start reaching into his pockets and pulling out birds. He would clean them outside, then take them in to Mom to fry. Occasionally, I would bite into a small shotgun pellet that he had missed, but other than that, it was one of my favorite meals.

As I grew, the dogs changed several times, and as the last batch of dogs grew too old to hunt, my dad did also. By then, the mid-'80s or so, there weren't many quail left anyway.

It wasn't hunting that caused the decline of this game bird, but lack of habitat. These birds like small fields bordered by brushy, weedy fencerows, unplanted fields, small grassy clearings and recently burned patches of woods. Today, much of this type of habitat is quickly becoming housing additions. Fencerows and small farming operations are disappearing. In large farming operations, field sizes are increasing and forests are disappearing.

According to the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission, various timber-management techniques can be used to create quail habitat, such as eradicating exotic grasses, establishing native warm-season grasses, strip-disking and conducting controlled burns. There are several programs out there to assist landowners in creating and maintaining wildlife habitat. You can contact The Arkansas Game and Fish to find out more information.

In the meantime, I will continue to listen for that elusive call and hope that these beautiful (and delicious) birds can somehow make a comeback and again become a common sight running across these old Arkansas dirt roads.

By the way, I have finally finished school! I graduated in May and have my life back. So, I am remembering again. I hope you will also. Get out there and smell the honeysuckle and, if you hear a "Bobwhite," let me know!

Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at [email protected]. Opinions expressed are those of the author.