A Day with the Grouse. 127 



yarns of the old settler who had dropped 

 in to tell us of the three coons that he had 

 found in one tree that day, and Grandad 

 Bradtree, leaning his sunken cheek on the 

 trembling hand that balanced the cane 

 against the arm-chair, was encouraged to 

 tell again such stories of his exploits in 

 the good old days as are usually reserved 

 for grandchildren and withheld from con- 

 temporaries. 



I know the beds of Eastern princes, and 

 the luxurious couches of Occidental pluto- 

 crats, but under the rafters of a farm-house 

 in western New York, where the mud 

 wasp's nest answers for a Rembrandt and 

 the cobweb takes the place of a Murillo, 

 there is a feather bed into which the 

 hunter who has killed a dozen ruffed 

 grouse in the day softly sinks until his 

 every inch is soothed and fitted, and set- 

 tling down and farther down into sweet 

 unconsciousness, while the screech owl is 

 calling from the moonlit oak and frost 

 is falling upon the asters, stocks may 

 fluctuate and panic seize the town, but 

 there is one man who is in peace. 



