RUFFED GROUSE AMONG THE 

 GRAPE-VINES. 



SAM and I had been hunting ruffed 

 grouse every day for a week, and 

 Sunday had finally brought us to a halt to 

 rest for the week ahead. It was a glori- 

 ous Sabbath in a little quaint village in 

 Wayne County, Pa. We sat on the stone 

 slab at the kitchen door of the old farm- 

 house, and smoked our pipes in content- 

 ment, watching the yellow leaves as they 

 lazily zig-zagged down to the ground from 

 the limbs of the half bare maples, and the 

 antiopa butterflies slowy flitting from one 

 decayed apple to another under the trees 

 in the orchard close by. A blue dove 

 on the eaves of the barn cooed occasion- 

 ally in a quiet, Sunday way as he basked 

 in the November sunshine, and the hens 

 were dozing in the holes where they had 

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