360 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 
Who that has heard the somber shades of the dense 
pine forest throb beneath the strokes of his hoarse re- 
sounding wing, or in the autumn woods has seen him 
flash for an instant amid the hues of crimson and gold, 
or pierce like a shaft of light the dark green of the 
cat-brier swamp, can ever forget the ruffed grouse? 
What sportsman can forget the feelings with which 
he has heard his drum-beat echo from the dark moun- 
tain side, or through the bursting woods of spring, 
or in those soft, still autumn days when the leaves 
are falling through the mellow haze of Indian summer, 
or, as sometimes heard, in the noon of night, in the 
depths of the forest primeval? Few pictures hang 
more bright in the inner chamber of the sportsman’s 
soul than the broad fanlike tail spread along his path 
as he treads the trail of the deer, or its dark bands 
shining on the carpet of checkered leaves or sweeping 
over the mossy carpet of wintergreen or vanishing in 
the heavy green of the laurel brake. 
Not even the majestic woodcock, with his solemn 
dignity; not bobwhite, with his sweet, graceful ways 
and artless beauty; not the brilliant but erratic little 
genius of the boggy meadow; not the noble turkey, 
with his beamy bronze and bearded breast, can raise 
such tender memories as this grouse. For all these 
must be sought, and often sought in vain, in their 
native haunts. But the ruffed grouse is a more famil- 
iar spirit, and many a time plays across the sports- 
man’s path when wandering over the sapling-clad slope 
where the autumn woodcock lies in the full bloom 
