344 Bird - Lore 



above her head. I watched how, when the camera was pointed a little to the 

 left of the nest, she invariably entered on the right, and vice versa. She 

 apparently appreciated the territory swept by the lens. 



Once when I had seen her approach as far as the laurel thicket and had 

 heard no further footsteps for half an hour, I pushed aside the hemlock branches 

 to see, if possible, what had frightened her. There was a rush of air through 

 stiff wing-quills as I showed myself, and a Red-shouldered Hawk left the dead 

 limb where he had been sitting, to wing his way swiftly out of the woods. 

 At another time I surprised a fat woodchuck within a yard of the nest. Whether 

 he intended harm or not I do not know, for he beat a hasty retreat before I 

 could satisfy my curiosity. I watched this Grouse in her efforts to overcome 

 her fear from ii o'clock in the morning till 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and out 

 of four shots got one good picture. She was not absent from her nest during 

 this entire time, for in order that the eggs should not get cold and that she might 

 acquire confidence, I allowed her to brood at intervals. The weather was warm 

 and the eggs were due to hatch in a few days. (It seems necessary to note here 

 iJiat all the eggs hatched in due course of time.) 



I have, in the not very remote past, walked the crisp autumn hillsides with 

 my gun held in readiness, and, though a poor shot, have enjoyed my occasional 

 kills with the pleasure of an amateur and the ensuing repertoire of a veteran; 

 but birds are scarcer now, and the Ruffed Grouse, even in districts where it 

 could for years wage an equal battle in the fight for existence, must inevitably 

 go the way of the Heath Hen and the Prairie Chicken, unless, in addition to 

 laws adequate to protect it and an honest effort to enforce them, there is a will 

 to abide by the closed season which shall become part of the traditions of ever\' 

 man who calls himself a sportsman. 



As the bird disappears from the coverts that knew it of old, the salt of 

 shooting loses its savor, and there is little pleasure in exchanging the roar of 

 its wings as it bursts from cover and rockets upward through the birch-tops, 

 or bores its way, bullet-like, through a tangle of underbrush, for the fading 

 colors of a reminiscence. For the Ruffed Grouse is an inspiration; his spring 

 drumming wakes the old desires toward a life in the open, and the foar of his 

 wings among the dry leaves of the November woods quickens with secure 

 delight the hearts of wayfarers on the upland trails. 



