Tbe Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 299 



stubble spreading far before is no great hardship. 

 The view is ringed with fire where maples and nut 

 trees mass their glowing ; the fence lines, where the 

 creepers, briers, and sumachs are, show like rivulets 

 of flame flowing down easy slopes, and over all the 

 season's lovely haze, the smoke of the earth's burnt- 

 offering for a bounteous field. 



Doc knocks the ashes from his pipe, and at the 

 sound the rested dogs spring up ready for more 

 work. 



Quick echoes wake within the woods, the cut 

 leaves drift, the dogs toil on while shadows creep. 

 From huge halted billows of forest we wade through 

 the soundless surf of lesser growths and reach the 

 open. Far away the sun's failing red dims like a 

 coal amid misty ashes. 



The horse is glad to see us. Food and water 

 a-plenty he has had, but his own stable is home, and 

 he wants to get there. This time both dogs ride. 

 Both have worked nobly and honors are easy. Few 

 words are spoken. The quick hoofs drum the white 

 road in regular cadence. Fence, field, and orchard 

 glide past in dimming procession, and twin puffs of 

 fragrant smoke drift rearward to mingle with the 

 mist, the fruity odors, and the sweetness of it all. 



