SHOOTING THE WOODS GROUSE 369 



uproarious wings, and a dozen or more birds went 

 darkling through the green, some wheeling out of the 

 top, some scudding straight away, some darting low 

 toward the edges. Quick as a flash I dropped on one 

 knee and sent a charge through the leaves where one's 

 fanlike tail was vanishing on a sharp curve as I raised 

 the gun. But by the time the shot reached there it 

 was gone, and by the time I discovered it was gone 

 the rest were all gone. But dimly through an opening 

 1 could see my friend on the hillside, with half a dozen 

 grouse swiftly driving toward him. One went past 

 him like an arrow feathered with white and brown, and 

 was gone before he could raise his gun. Another, 

 whirling into sight above the brush, with its full white 

 breast, broadly mottled with black, brightly flashing in 

 the sun, just a trifle too late for me to shoot at, went 

 spinning by him with unruffled feathers at the report 

 of his gun. And then five or six more went roaring 

 on past, and above and behind him, while he, in con- 

 fusion, shifting his gun from one side to the other, 

 and hardly knowing what to shoot at, let them all go 

 by, and stood as if looking for more to come. 



Few American sportsmen have had so much expe- 

 rience in upland shooting as Mr. B. Waters, whose 

 excursions have covered the game fields of almost the 

 whole United States east of the Rocky Mountains. 

 Famous as a handler of hunting dogs, and equally fa- 

 mous as a crack shot, both at the traps and in the field, 

 his views on the shooting of any game bird will receive 

 respectful attention, for he is past master of the art. 



