THE RUFFED GROUSE 39 



a gun-muzzle below him. Well, better luck 

 next time, let us hope." 



Fifty yards farther on, the same careful 

 drawing to a final ''stagey" pose. Whir-r-r-r! 

 and a big cock partridge dashes up into the shel- 

 ter of the birches above us. Bang! ''Fetch 

 him, good boy! That's better. That's" — In 

 the act of holding the bird to his master's hand 

 the dog has wheeled and pointed, carefully put- 

 ting down his trophy and moving in a step or 

 two. The monologue flags, then ceases. Right 

 at the dog's side I wait, then give a low chirrup 

 for him to go on. This one I must have and 

 things look most promising. Whir-r-r-r! 

 Bang! ''What!" Bang! and at the second 

 shot the bird tumbles in a cloud of feathers, a 

 long forty yards away, close to the thick woods 

 on the hilltop. Together, dog and I, we scram- 

 ble through the briars to the summit, the 

 pointer just a bit in front. He pulls up short 

 and points. "All right, old man. Yes, it was 

 just here he fell. Fetch! No? Well, I can 

 pick him up myself," and so I do — er — not! 

 With a thunderous roar of hurrying wings the 

 bird flushes under foot, rocketing into the tree 



