VI 



Prairie Grouse 185 



do it. If you are asked always put your host in 

 mind to have a bucket swinging under the buggy, 

 in order that the Gebblum o' colour who attends 

 you may put therein the wandering terrapin — his 

 soup, the terrapins is — ah! well, never mind! 

 But I wander, and always did, and always will as 

 long as there is a new bit of the world to see. 

 Well, about those prairie chickens on the real 

 Western Prairie. As a rule there are no prairie 

 chickens on the real Western Prairie. As you 

 ride along, looking for " sign," Indian or other, you 

 may, now and again, see two or three shrinking 

 cusses, looking something like a mixture of washed- 

 out grouse feathers and burnt grass, which you 

 only recognise as " fowl " by catching the limpid 

 black eye looking at you in sham innocence, and 

 which you would never think of firing at for reasons 

 which, if you were out there, you would know. 

 But as for a grouse, a bold, hiccuping, kickupping, 

 reckless rascal, with his cheery defiant " Go back ! 

 go back ! go back ! " you won't see him, no indeed, 

 sir, not till the corn comes, and then it'll be but a 

 poor imitation of the real thing. 



' When out West, you have got back to the 

 pleasant camp, amidst the cotton-trees, down by the 

 snaky, curling, twisting, twining, dull-green river — 

 which can only support a beastly chub as long as 

 your finger, worthy denizen of water which you 

 would not touch if you could get decent soap-suds 

 from a respectable laundry — tired and vexed at 



