THE RUFFED GROUSE 



he has any intention of associating with 

 you or your plebeian poultry. You can 

 only wonder where he found refuge from 

 the painted shower when all his world 

 was wooded. If he invites your attend- 

 ance at his drum solo, it is only to fool 

 you with the sight of an empty stage, 

 for you must be as stealthy and keen- 

 eyed as a lynx to see his proud display 

 of distended ruff and wide spread of 

 barred tail and accelerated beat of wings 

 that mimic thunder, or see even the 

 leafy curtain of his stage flutter in the 

 wind of his swift exit. 



How the definite recognition of his 

 motionless form evades you, so perfectly 

 are his colors merged into those of his 

 environment, whether it be in the flush 

 greenness of summer, the painted hues 

 of autumn or its later faded dun and 

 gray, or in the whiteness of winter. 

 Among one or the other he is but a clot 

 of dead leaves, a knot upon a branch, 

 the gray stump of a sapling protruding 

 from the snow, or, covered deep in the 

 unmarked whiteness, he bursts from it 

 like a mine exploded at your feet, leav- 

 ing you agape till he has vanished from 

 '85 



