THE RUFFED GROUSE 25 
spot for his drumming for a long time, coming 
day after day to his chosen station. One old 
‘‘drumming log”’ is still in use near where I am 
writing, although the screen of spruces for- 
merly protecting it has been cut down these 
three years and it is now fifty yards to the near- 
est cover. Mr. Grouse, if he survives the perils 
of the fall months, will return next season; if 
not, another will ‘‘take the stump”’ in the good 
cause and continue the business at the old stand. 
The courtship over and happily ended, the 
hen builds her nest in some secluded and safely 
hidden nook and begins housekeeping. Her 
home is a very modest affair, quite unpreten- 
tious. On the ground, in the shelter of a fall- 
en tree or in the shadow of a juniper bush a 
small depression is rounded out and lined with 
leaves, grass and dry pine needles—very little 
of the artistic but all for convenience and util- 
ity—simplicity itself. It contains from seven 
to sixteen eggs, creamy white, rather pointed at 
one end, and as may be guessed, when the 
youngsters arrive the mother bird has no lack 
of employment in caring for them, for at this 
season she leaves the male entirely and sets up 
housekeeping alone lest he destroy the nest and 
