The Ruffed Grouse 407 



In a twinkling your first barrel clears a road 

 through the brush a little forward of the line of 

 the bird's flight. And the second tunnels the 

 smoke of the first a little farther ahead of where 

 the wings are still resounding. As the sound 

 ceases you go with mighty strain of expectation 

 to look for a feather or two lodged on the top of 

 the brush. But there is none there, none floating; 

 on the air, and as you realize that the bird sailed 

 away on that silent, outspread wing that so closely 

 imitates the flight of an arrow, you feel a mild resig- 

 nation steal over you, somewhat akin to gladness 

 that you have found something as smart as you are. 

 Even in the remotest wilds he is the same wary 

 bird, wary by nature more than by education. 

 Nowhere in the East does he know better how to 

 hide and let you pass him than among the little 

 dwarf huckleberries that gleam in scarlet on the 

 slope of the Cascades. And where the crimson of 

 the wild cherries and the golden light of the wild 

 plum illumine the dark thicket he springs with that 

 obstreperous wing whose music is but the more 

 enchanting for being too quickly gone. And how 

 could any of his race forget that old family trick 

 of dodging behind a tree about the instant you are 

 ready to pull the trigger, and then keeping in line 

 with it until well out of shot ? Nor has he forgotten 

 that you will look for him again in the spot where 

 he alights, and he will run off on one side, where 



