Quail Seed

"Quail Seed" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki. The narrative unfolds in the Edwardian era and centers around the themes of nature, societal norms, and the interplay between human desires and the natural world. The story follows the interactions between a landowner and a local man who brings news about a hawk threatening the quail population. As the characters engage in a battle of wits, the underlying tension and the unpredictable elements of fate are revealed, showcasing Saki's signature blend of wit and irony. The tale ultimately reflects on human folly and the capriciousness of life, consistent with Saki's style of dark humor and social commentary.

• Short story

								
"The outlook is not encouraging for us smaller businesses," said Mr.
Scarrick to the artist and his sister, who had taken rooms over his
suburban grocery store.  "These big concerns are offering all sorts of
attractions to the shopping public which we couldn't afford to imitate,
even on a small scale--reading-rooms and play-rooms and gramophones and
Heaven knows what.  People don't care to buy half a pound of sugar
nowadays unless they can listen to Harry Lauder and have the latest
Australian cricket scores ticked off before their eyes.  With the big
Christmas stock we've got in we ought to keep half a dozen assistants
hard at work, but as it is my nephew Jimmy and myself can pretty well
attend to it ourselves.  It's a nice stock of goods, too, if I could only
run it off in a few weeks time, but there's no chance of that--not unless
the London line was to get snowed up for a fortnight before Christmas.  I
did have a sort of idea of engaging Miss Luffcombe to give recitations
during afternoons; she made a great hit at the Post Office entertainment
with her rendering of 'Little Beatrice's Resolve'."

"Anything less likely to make your shop a fashionable shopping centre I
can't imagine," said the artist, with a very genuine shudder; "if I were
trying to decide between the merits of Carlsbad plums and confected figs
as a winter dessert it would infuriate me to have my train of thought
entangled with little Beatrice's resolve to be an Angel of Light or a
girl scout.  No," he continued, "the desire to get something thrown in
for nothing is a ruling passion with the feminine shopper, but you can't
afford to pander effectively to it.  Why not appeal to another instinct;
which dominates not only the woman shopper but the male shopper--in fact,
the entire human race?"

"What is that instinct, sir?" said the grocer.

* * * * *

Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as there
was not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well make
their grocery purchases at Scarrick's.  It would not be sensational, they
agreed, but it would still be shopping.

For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far as
customers were concerned, but while they were debating the respective
virtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they were
startled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates and
a packet of quail seed.  Neither commodity was in general demand in that
neighbourhood.  Equally unusual was the style and appearance of the
customer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large dusky
eyes, and think, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made his
living as an artist's model.  As a matter of fact he did.  The bowl of
beaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases was
distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing
basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen.
He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the
counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be
forthcoming.

"The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday," he said; "keep what is
over of the money for our future purchases."

"A very strange-looking boy?" said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the
grocer as soon as his customer had left.

"A foreigner, I believe," said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was
entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.

"I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have," said an
authoritative voice a moment or two later.  The speaker was a tall,
authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among
other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in
early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.

"Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?" he asked suddenly,
as the coffee was being weighed out to him.

The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an
unblushing negative.

"We have a few pomegranates in stock," he continued, "but there has been
no demand for them."

"My servant will fetch the coffee as usual," said the purchaser,
producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse.  As an apparent
afterthought he fired out the question: "Have you, perhaps, any quail
seed?"

"No," said the grocer, without hesitation, "we don't stock it."

"What will he deny next?" asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath.  What made
it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently
presided at a lecture on Savonarola.

Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept
out of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a
Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrim.  Whether such a pleasant function ever
fell to a Satrap's lot she was not quite certain, but the simile
faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.

"Don't let's bother about the 3.12," said Mrs. Greyes; "let's go and talk
this over at Laura Lipping's.  It's her day."

When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass
marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of
whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the air
of people who had very little to do with their time.  In a voice that was
heard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intently
listening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed.

"More quail seed!" said Miss Fritten.  "Those quails must be voracious,
or else it isn't quail seed at all."

"I believe it's opium, and the bearded man is a detective," said Mrs.
Greyes brilliantly.

"I don't," said Laura Lipping; "I'm sure it's something to do with the
Portuguese Throne."

"More likely to be a Persian intrigue on behalf of the ex-Shah," said
Miss Fritten; "the bearded man belongs to the Government Party.  The
quail-seed is a countersign, of course; Persia is almost next door to
Palestine, and quails come into the Old Testament, you know."

"Only as a miracle," said her well-informed younger sister; "I've thought
all along it was part of a love intrigue."

The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was on
the point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy,
the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and bacon
counter, commanded a good view of the street.

"We have some very fine Jaffa oranges," he said hurriedly, pointing to a
corner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins.
There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear.  The boy flew at
the oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family at

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