360 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 



Who that has heard the somber shades of the dense 

 pine forest throb beneath the strokes of his hoarse re- 

 sounding wing, or in the autumn woods has seen him 

 flash for an instant amid the hues of crimson and gold, 

 or pierce like a shaft of light the dark green of the 

 cat-brier swamp, can ever forget the ruffed grouse? 

 What sportsman can forget the feelings with which 

 he has heard his drum-beat echo from the dark moun- 

 tain side, or through the bursting woods of spring, 

 or in those soft, still autumn days when the leaves 

 are falling through the mellow haze of Indian summer, 

 or, as sometimes heard, in the noon of night, in the 

 depths of the forest primeval? Few pictures hang 

 more bright in the inner chamber of the sportsman's 

 soul than the broad fanlike tail spread along his path 

 as he treads the trail of the deer, or its dark bands 

 shining on the carpet of checkered leaves or sweeping 

 over the mossy carpet of wintergreen or vanishing in 

 the heavy green of the laurel brake. 



Not even the majestic woodcock, with his solemn 

 dignity; not bobwhite, with his sweet, graceful ways 

 and artless beauty; not the brilliant but erratic little 

 genius of the boggy meadow; not the noble turkey, 

 with his beamy bronze and bearded breast, can raise 

 such tender memories as this grouse. For all these 

 must be sought, and often sought in vain, in their 

 native haunts. But the ruffed grouse is a more famil- 

 iar spirit, and many a time plays across the sports- 

 man's path when wandering over the sapling-clad slope 

 where the autumn woodcock lies in the full bloom 



