III. 



THE RUFFED GROUSE. 



WHO can forget the feelings with which he 

 first heard the mysterious drum of the ruffed 

 grouse throb through the bursting woods of 

 spring, or later from the dark mountain-side 

 where the soft pink and white of the rhododen- 

 dron light up the dark jungle of its leaves, or 

 where the leaves are falling through the haze of 

 Indian Summer, or, as sometimes heard even in 

 the noon of night, in the depths of the great 

 forest ? And who ever failed to love him from 

 the moment he first caught a glimpse of his 

 fanlike tail as the graceful bird flashed amid a 

 maze of crimson and gold, or pierced like a shaft 

 of light the green tangle of the cat-brier swamp ? 

 And who does not feel that he has lived when, 

 after many vain shots, he sees the brown wings 

 come whirling out of the leaves through which 



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