ALL the wild birds that still haunt 

 our remaining solitudes, the ruffed 

 grouse — the pa'tridge of our younger 

 days — is perhaps the wildest, the most alert, 

 the most suggestive of the primeval wilder- 

 ness that we have lost. You enter the woods 

 from the hillside pasture, lounging a moment 

 on the old gray fence to note the play of 

 light and shadow on the birch bolls. Your 

 eye lingers restfully on the wonderful mixture 

 of soft colors that no brush has ever yet imi- 

 tated, the rich old gold of autumn tapestries, 

 the glimmering gray-green of the mouldering 

 stump that the fungi have painted. What a 



