{HE RUFFED GROUSE. 169 
of the day. One of my companions asked him why the 
buck assailed him. 
“* Because I didn’t sing,” was the grave reply. 
“What has singing to do with the attack?” 
“Everything; for I notice that whenever I forget to 
sing ‘I’m a Pilgrim’ the bucks try to kill me.” 
«They must be very musical deer in this place.” 
“‘Yes; they’re about as musical as people who ask 
silly questions are sensible. Now, how on earth could I 
tell you what made that buck pitch into me, unless it 
was that he was too mean to live?” 
“Got your mad up, eh?” 
“Well, maybe you’d be good-natured 1f you had to go 
through these woods and briars like a half-dressed High- 
lander. You may think it very funny, but I don’t. Cold 
winds and sharp brambles don’t agree with my legs.” 
The serious tone in which this was uttered produced 
several fits of cachination, and when they were over, we 
cached the deer, and started off in quest of more adven- 
tures. The first thing in the form of game I saw was a 
young ruffed male grouse, which was parading up and 
down a log and drumming at intervals. While earnestly 
watching him I made a movement which caused the 
leaves to rustle, and this attracted his attention in a mo- 
ment. Standing as still as a statue, he looked directly 
at me for several seconds, and when he had satisfied his 
curiosity he gave a loud cluck, and with a startling 
whirr, which seemed all the louder on account of the 
solemn silence of the forest, he darted away; but his joy 
was briet, “for he felt the fiery wound, fluttered in blood 
and panting beat the ground,” and was in my bag a mo- 
ment later. I had hardly picked him up before an old male 
sprung from the ground with a loud whirr, and went 
sailing through the trees at arate of speed that made 
me think he was bound for China and wanted to get 
there in two minutes. I looked disappointed at missing 
8 
