TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. 2Q7 



yards, and have seen him expand his chest, as does the 

 athlete, and thus make his drum, for the calls which set the 

 forest in a whirl, and notifies his sweetheart of his presence. 



How to kill the ruffed grouse is a topic upon which 

 every sportsman has an opinion. When I was a boy I 

 used to go into the Ohio beech woods with a little, coarse- 

 haired terrier and wait until I heard him bark. Then I be- 

 gan to whistle, for I thought that under the then existing 

 circumstances, the grouse would take no notice of me. In- 

 variably, I found this beautiful bird intently watching the 

 dog that bounded about him, barking. I soon found that 

 my whistling counted for nothing, and a careful shot al- 

 ways landed my prize under the tree. 



In Montana they present a much darker color than that 

 of the eastern birds. At the sight of a dog they will fly 

 quickly into a small tree and sit perfectly still, while you 

 walk all around them among the low trees. Once, when re- 

 turning to camp, after a vain search for a bear, I struck a 

 thicket of cottonwoods and quaking-asps, so dense that I 

 was compelled to crawl through it on my knees. Suddenly, 

 I heard the quick whirr of a grouse's flight, and the bird 

 perched himself on a limb that was clearly outlined in the 

 moonlight. I had his whole body silhouetted and it was a 

 beautiful picture. The crest of feathers upon his head 

 shown as plainly as though the time were midday. I drew 

 a bead for his neck and fired. His plump body fell like a 

 stone, and I still preserve his stuffed skin as a memento of 

 the grouse seen and killed in my boyhood days, although 

 he differs from them in color. 



