Bob Whites, Grouse, etc. 



ally at the foot of an old stump or log or rock, often near a 

 stream among the underbrush ; but many nests in unprotected 

 open stretches are recorded. A few wisps of dry grass, dead 

 leaves, pine needles, or any convenient material, line the hollow 

 in which a full set of eggs— from ten to fifteen rich buff, dotted 

 with different sized spots of pale chestnut brown— has been found 

 as early as April first, a full month earlier than the regular time. 

 Since the markings can be easily rubbed off a fresh laid egg, one 

 sometimes hears that the grouse's egg is plain buff. Only one 

 brood is raised in a season, the exceptions to the rule being very 

 rare. For nearly four weeks the hen closely confines herself, 

 and, like the sitting Bob White, relies upon her plumage's perfect 

 mimicry of her surroundings to protect her from notice. The 

 coloring of a ruffed grouse tells of a long ancestry passed under 

 deciduous trees. Seated among last year's leaves she looks all 

 of a piece with the carpeting of the woods, and neither stirs a 

 feather nor winks an eye, though you stand within two feet of 

 her, to lead you to think otherwise. Mr. D. G. Elliot, among 

 others, believes she hides her nest from the male as well as from 

 all her other enemies. The fox, weasel, squirrel, hawk, owl, 

 and above all the breech-loader, are the grouse's deadliest foes; 

 and a species of woodtick that inserts its triangular head beneath 

 the skin, sometimes destroying entire broods. Bird lice, and a 

 botworm that resembles a maggot and penetrates the flesh, like- 

 wise prove fatal, particularly to chicks. The dust baths commonly 

 indulged in are taken to rid themselves of vermin. Heavy rains 

 that drench the fledgelings not infrequently kill them, too, until 

 one wonders there are any ruffed grouse left. The precocious, 

 downy brown balls, that run at once from the shell, are managed 

 precisely as a domestic hen cares for her brood, even to the 

 clucking, hen-like call that summons them beneath her wings, 

 where they sleep until old enough to roost in trees like adults. 

 The mother grouse when suddenly startled gives a shrill squeal, 

 apparently the signal for the covey to scatter and hide among the 

 leaves and tangle, while, by feigning lameness and other hack- 

 neyed devices for diverting an intruder's attention from the chicks 

 to herself, she remains in their neighborhood, thev motionless in 

 their hiding places, until the reassuring cluck calls the happy 

 family together again. When the young need no further care in 

 autumn, the males selfishly join the covey, rarely consisting of 



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