IN THE WAKE OF THE PARTRIDGE 185 



now submerged in the woods a hunt ending 

 only when it is too dark to shoot, with per 

 haps a long tramp home again after that. No, 

 coffee and toast would never do! 



As we turn out of the sheltered barnyard 

 through the bars and up the farm lane, the 

 keen wind flings at us, and our numb fingers 

 recoil from the metal of our guns and take a 

 careful grip on the wood. At once we fall to 

 discussing the vital question - - Where will 

 the birds be to-day? For the partridges, as 

 the New Englander calls our ruffed grouse, 

 are very fastidious about where they spend 

 their days. Sometimes they are all in the 

 swamps, sometimes they are among the white 

 birches of the hillsides, sometimes in the big 

 woods, sometimes on the half-wooded rock 

 ledges, sometimes among the scrub growth of 

 lately cut timberland, and sometimes, in very 

 cold weather, on the dry knolls where the 

 cedars huddle the warm little brooding 

 cedars that give the birds shelter as a hen 

 does her chicks. 



When I first began to hunt with Jonathan, 

 he knew so much more than I in these matters 

 that I always accepted his judgment. If he 



