The Ruffed Grouse 409 



a shotgun while it sits craning its neck at a dog 

 barking below, or even the respectable business 

 of shooting at the head of one with the rifle. The 

 latter involves some hunting, for few things are 

 harder to see than a ruffed grouse perfectly still 

 in a tree. And to hit the small head with a single 

 ball is about as hard as any rifle-shooting if the 

 trees are of much heisrht. But with the shoto:un 

 to hit one flying from a tree is one of the shots to 

 boast of, and you must never be too elated with 

 one or two good shots. How to make the bird fly 

 if too high to scare out with stick or stone, is a 

 matter of detail too long for the limits of this article, 

 but if you throw anything at him, be sure and get 

 your hand in position on the gun again before it 

 reaches him. 



Bbbbbbb goes the bird with a rush that sur- 

 passes the starting of any other of earth's crea- 

 tures, and at the report of the first barrel, on goes 

 the game as if feathered with the lightning's rays. 

 Bang goes the second barrel as quickly as you can 

 shift your finger to the next trigger, but the gay 

 rover vanishes where the arms of the fir intertwine 

 above, and not a feather drifts down from its whiz- 

 zing line of brown and white around which the 

 rapid wings seem but a reddish haze tinged with 

 gray. You shot behind, of course, and the next 

 time will be sure to hold far enough ahead. 

 Bbbbbbbbb goes another, with a downward curve 



