THE RUFFED GROUSE. 59 



gray trunks before even the squirrel comes out 

 to play, or the bluejay tunes his jingling pipe, or 

 the dark form of the raven wheels above the 

 trees, the grouse may spread his tail along your 

 path and scatter the dry leaves beneath his re- 

 verberating wings. Where the wild cherry and 

 choke-berry line the little boggy flat, where the 

 cubs have rolled down the ferns, and the old 

 mother bear has turned over the fallen log for 

 grubs, you may see your friend mount on defiant 

 wing and wind swiftly out of sight among the 

 dense wealth of basswoods and maples. Often 

 when you are sitting on the sunny side of some 

 fallen log where the spikenard spreads its broad 

 umbels of spicy black berries, or watching for 

 some imaginary buck beside some runway where 

 the trailing arbutus keeps the ground green with 

 its ever-bright leaves, the grouse may come walk- 

 ing beside you, in all the majesty of its pure 

 innocence, if you keep perfectly still. 



Dull seem the woods without this happy soul. 

 When dank and sodden from the storm, and a 

 cheerless wind sighs through the boughs, the 

 scores of grouse that on the last warm day so 

 enlivened the forest are suddenly gone, and very 



