THE STORY OF A GROUSE. 23 



the buds of many of the bushes were fine eating, I felt 

 no desire to leave the woods where I was born. 



So here I stay, year in and year out. In March I 

 have a favorite log where I always drum. You can 

 hear my strokes a mile away, and when I am drum- 

 ming I spread out my tail and blow out my feath- 

 ers, till there is no handsomer bird in the swamp. 



Each year I see and hear the Ovenbirds that come 

 to rest on my log, and they tell me of their journeys 

 southward in the fall, and the fine woods they find 

 where there is never snow, but I think my own woods 

 are best. I should be a foolish Grouse to fly so far 

 into an unknown country when my feathers keep me 

 so warm and buds are so easy to find. 



