SHOOTING THE WOODS GROUSE 307 
of white and black and brown mixed in a whirl that 
made the air tremble even more than the thunder of 
my companion’s gun, which was spouting flame and 
smoke above my head. When I recovered myself I 
found that four birds had made all the uproar, and that 
my friend had pacified two of them. 
The grouse were so scattered that it was better to 
search for a new flock than to try to find the single 
birds that had flown far up and down the hillsides. So 
we moved along several hundred yards until we came 
to a broad-bottomed ravine. Along the hills near 
its head the oaks stood larger and closer than before, 
the ferns were brighter, longer and greener, the birches 
were taller, and maples and aspens were jostling them 
aside. A soft fragrance of wild honey and thyme 
haunted the dark, cool shades, and everything hinted 
strongly of the favorite home of the ruffed grouse. 
Old Jack at once took the hint, and with gingerly 
tread went marching up the bottom of the ravine, with 
nose aloft and slowly undulating tail. Though he had 
yet smelt nothing, the spirit of the place whispered 
grouse so strongly that his fancy kept him on a half 
point from the start, just as many a good old dog’s 
imagination makes him change his pace the instant he 
enters a dark, damp swamp, where everything breathes 
the magic word, woodcock. And even Frank seemed 
enthralled by the cool, green, silent shades, and 
threaded the birchen bowers and the beds of fern with 
more than usual care. 
But Jack went far up the hill several times, and came 
