A DAY WITH THE GROUSE. 



ON one of those clean, northerly, 

 transparent November mornings, 

 when the elfin frost sketchers had left the 

 tops of the kitchen window-panes suffi- 

 ciently clear to give an impressionist effect 

 of yellow sassafras leaves in the yard and 

 embers of autumn over beyond upon the 

 mountain side, John and I moved our 

 creaky old-fashioned chairs up to the 

 farm-house table and fortified ourselves 

 for the prospective hunt with hot buck- 

 wheat cakes and sausage gravy, with 

 home-made sausages that had spluttered 

 and burst in the frying-pan and then 

 turned all crunchy where their contents 

 had quickly browned, and finally, with a 

 warmer of coffee containing blobs of real 

 cream and doubtful sugar. 



We were clad in stout canvas hunting 

 1x8 



