THE DUSKY TxEOUSE. 143 



appreciate my sentimentalism at the time, so he rallied 

 me good iiaturedly on my sudden fit of goody-goodiness, 

 and hinted that I ought to join an infant class and help 

 them in singing that highly novel composition:— 



"Hark, to the woods, the sound of a gun, 

 The wounded bird flutters and dies,— ' 

 I'm sure it is wicked for nothing but fun, 

 To shoot the poor bird as it flies." 



''That is very good so far as it goes," I exclaimed, 

 ''and I would be willing to subscribe to it to a certain 

 extent." 



"I don't believe in shooting for fun, either," he said, 

 "but I do believe in killing birds for food, else what use 

 on earth are they?" 



Whirr! whirr! whirr! Three flights of grouse rose up 

 not thirty feet away from us. " Jowhittaker" ! ex- 

 claimed Smith, " but they startled me. I must have the 

 grouse ague to be scared in this manner. 



"They are all in the same tree," I replied, "so you 

 need not have tlie ague long. Come on." 



We started off on a run and were soon at the base of the 

 tree in which they had sought shelter, but on looking up 

 among the foliage we could see no signs of them. We 

 peered and peered until we strained our eyes, and still 

 failed to detect anything animate, but as I was acquaint- 

 ed with the peculiar habit the birds have of standing mo- 

 tionless on a branch, I suggested that we should fire 

 simultaneously at any excrescences on the boughs, in 

 order to rout them, and the idea being acceptable,' we 

 blazed away at a large limb, which seemed to be full of 

 knobs. Our fire was answered by an alarmed cluck, and 

 the startling whirr of rushing wings, and though the 

 greater portion of the birds flew away, yet three came 

 tumbling down with such rapidity that Smith said it was 

 raming grouse. Having marked down the fugitives, we 



