210 SMALL SHOT 



grouse, that should rightfully be in the swamp, or 

 field, or copse that of old their tribes possessed. 

 All these places he must search, and study how 

 changed conditions have wrought changes in the 

 habits of the few survivors. The wits of these, too, 

 are sharpened. The woodcock does not wait till 

 the dog's nose is almost above him before he springs 

 up with a twittering whistle, but flushes wild, and 

 alights afar off. The scant bevy of quail goes off 

 out of gunshot in a gray flurry to the mazes of the 

 woods. The ruffed grouse tarries not to cry "quit! 

 quit ! " nor strut along the dim aisles of his wood- 

 land sanctuary, but hurtles away unseen, almost 

 out of ear shot. If by good luck one of these falls 

 to the unaccustomed aim, if a woodcock tumbles 

 in a shower of leaves to the ferny carpet of the 

 swamp, if a quail drops to the earth out of a whiff of 

 feathers, if a grouse slants from his arrowy flight 

 and strikes with a fluttering thud upon the fallen 

 leaves, or a woodduck, started from a willowy bend 

 of the river, splashes back into it before the powder 

 smoke has unveiled him, the heart is warmed with 

 a thrill of the satisfaction of well-doing. 



Without even this appeasing of the sportsman's 

 gentle bloodthirst, there is more and better to be 

 got of a day's wandering with the helping bur- 

 den of a gun. The companionship of Nature, the 

 eavesdropping and spying to catch her secrets, the 

 studying of the ways of all the little wood people, 



