RUFFED GROUSE. 33 
colors are the colors of the brown leaves that lie 
on the ground, and as he crouches close to the 
earth it is no easy task to discover him. The one 
thought of the poor persecuted bird seems to be 
to keep out of reach of his enemies. 
Here, one of his favorite covers is in a quiet 
spot where I go to gather ferns —a grove that 
“fronts the rising sun” and is full of dappled 
maple saplings interspersed with the white birches 
that gleam in the morning light and keep birch- 
bark scrolls rolled up along their sides ready for 
the birds to carry away for their nests. At the 
foot of the trees, and close to the moss-covered 
drumming-log, ferns stand in pretty groups of all 
growths from the tiny green sprays and the soft 
uncurling downy balls to the full grown arching 
fronds whose backs are dotted with brown fruit; 
while, as a protecting hedge along the front of the 
grove, great masses of the tender green mountain 
fern give their delicate fragrance to the air. But 
pass by this hiding place, and a sudden whirr 
through the bushes, first from one startled bird 
and then another, tells you they have flown before 
you. Approach the drumming-log when the air 
has been resounding with exultant blows — the 
noise stops, not a bird is to be seen. 
As we feed the partridges in our woods and 
never allow any hunting there, in winter the birds 
venture about the house for food. The Norway 
spruces by the garden afford a warm shelter, and 
