SHOOTING THE WOODS GROUSE 367 



of white and black and brown mixed in a whirl that 

 made the air tremble even more than the thunder of 

 my companion's gun, which was spouting flame and 

 smoke above my head. When I recovered myself I 

 found that four birds had made all the uproar, and that 

 my friend had pacified two of them. 



The grouse were so scattered that it was better to 

 search for a new flock than to try to find the single 

 birds that had flown far up and down the hillsides. So 

 we moved along several hundred yards until we came 

 to a broad-bottomed ravine. Along the hills near 

 its head the oaks stood larger and closer than before, 

 the ferns were brighter, longer and greener, the birches 

 were taller, and maples and aspens were jostling them 

 aside. A soft fragrance of wild honey and thyme 

 haunted the dark, cool shades, and everything hinted 

 strongly of the favorite home of the ruffed grouse. 



Old Jack at once took the hint, and with gingerly 

 tread went marching up the bottom of the ravine, with 

 nose aloft and slowly undulating tail. Though he had 

 yet smelt nothing, the spirit of the place whispered 

 grouse so strongly that his fancy kept him on a half 

 point from the start, just as many a good old dog's 

 imagination makes him change his pace the instant he 

 enters a dark, damp swamp, where everything breathes 

 the magic word, woodcock. And even Frank seemed 

 enthralled by the cool, green, silent shades, and 

 threaded the birchen bowers and the beds of fern with 

 more than usual care. 



But Jack went far up the hill several times, and came 



