I hear too a quail piping from the meadow fence, and another trilling his answering whistle from the hills.
"Dream Life" by Donald G. Mitchell
A quail piped its morning greeting from the brush.
"Oh, You Tex!" by William Macleod Raine
A pensive quail piped an answer to the trilling call from the meadows.
"David Dunne" by Belle Kanaris Maniates
Arise, then, Zamperina, Day grows old,
The Shepherd pipes his sundered Flocks to Fold,
Your Garments quail and ripple in the Chill,
Your pagan Nose empurples with the Cold.
"The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám Jr." by Wallace Irwin
Among the stubbled corn
The blithe quail pipes at morn,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
And glittering insects gleam
Above the reedy stream
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.
"September" by George Arnold
The crickets sing no more to the stars--
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there--both at night and at morn--
A lonely robin still sings.
"The Opal Month" by Virna Sheard