Where Town and Country Meet 



clumps and in following the smaller bird 

 you are actually led to the best spots for 

 discovering the larger, if there are any 

 ruff ed grouse thereabouts. 



Yonder is a blue jay, screaming at me 

 from the lower branches of a birch, at a 

 safe distance, even supposing I had a gun 

 concealed anywhere about me. I fancy that 

 there is a note of scornful amusement, as 

 well as petulant query, in his scolding cry, 

 as if it really tickled him to see a man so 

 foot-tied and absurdly hampered, toiling and 

 panting through the woods, when the roads 

 of the air were as free and smooth and de- 

 lightful as ever. His laugh has the ring 

 of superiority in it, but no kindly good 

 humor. Now he is off, in full retreat, show- 

 ing the white bars in his tail, and taunting 

 all the while, like a vituperative but cow- 

 ardly cur. I like the bluejay least of all our 

 birds, summer or winter. He is a scolder 

 from first to last, always imputing the worst 

 motives to every human being who ven- 

 tures into the woods, and proclaiming his 

 suspicions loudly to the whole feathered 

 community. 



Soon after bidding the jay good riddance, 

 190 



