368 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 
trudging back, looking somewhat dispirited; and 
Frank, after making his way as often up and down 
through the ferns, seemed as badly muddled; yet both 
seemed to think there must be game there. We passed 
around the head of the ravine, over ground that seemed 
especially made for grouse to spend the day in, but 
they seemed to have that provoking trait that game 
often exhibits, of ignoring the fine places you pick out 
for it and preferring to make its.own selection. Further 
down the ravine, below where the scrub oaks and ma- 
ples and aspens broke into the heavier black oak that 
robed most of the hills, and where the bottom widened 
out into a little valley, lay a long thicket of crab-apple 
and wild plum, edged with black haw and hazel where it 
broke into the oak and maple of the hills. Knowing 
that the birds ranged low as well as high, along these 
hills, we went to it. The dogs soon disappeared within 
the dense green shrubbery, and naught was heard of 
them in a minute or more but the light rustle of their 
feet. And not another minute seemed to pass away 
before that, too, ceased. 
Leaving my friend on the outside, where he would 
be able to get a shot at anything that came out, I went 
into the thicket. There stood Jack, bent: like a bow, 
with tail and jowl nearly parallel, as he had evidently 
thrown himself with a sudden whirl, upon striking the 
scent from one side. And a few yards behind him, 
half hidden in the deep green, stood Frank, with the 
solemnity of a tombstone on a winter night. As I 
stopped behind Jack there was a bewildering burst of 
