368 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 



trudging back, looking somewhat dispirited; and 

 Frank, after making his way as often up and down 

 through the ferns, seemed as badly muddled ; yet both 

 seemed to think there must be game there. We passed 

 around the head of the ravine, over ground that seemed 

 especially made for grouse to spend the day in, but 

 they seemed to have that provoking trait that game 

 often exhibits, of ignoring the fine places you pick out 

 for it and preferring to make its. own selection. Further 

 down the ravine, below where the scrub oaks and ma- 

 ples and aspens broke into the heavier black oak that 

 robed most of the hills, and where the bottom widened 

 out into a little valley, lay a long thicket of crab-apple 

 and wild plum, edged with black haw and hazel where it 

 broke into the oak and maple of the hills. Knowing 

 that the birds ranged low as well as high, along these 

 hills, we went to it. The dogs soon disappeared within 

 the dense green shrubbery, and naught was heard of 

 them in a minute or more but the light rustle of their 

 feet. And not another minute seemed to pass away 

 before that, too, ceased. 



Leaving my friend on the outside, where he would 

 be able to get a shot at anything that came out, I went 

 into the thicket. There stood Jack, bent like a bow, 

 with tail and jowl nearly parallel, as he had evidently 

 thrown himself with a sudden whirl, upon striking the 

 scent from one side. And a few yards behind him, 

 half hidden in the deep green, stood Frank, with the 

 solemnity of a tombstone on a winter night. As I 

 stopped behind Jack there was a bewildering burst of 



