THE RUFFED GROUSE 31 
mark was apt and appropriate, but better luck 
next time. The dog moves up and points just 
where the last bird burst out from among the 
junipers, and you laugh and say, ‘‘One on you, 
old boy!’’ and come carelessly up to stand by 
his side as you reload. At the snap of your 
gun as you close it another bird dashes out al- 
most from beneath your feet. What a chance! 
Straightaway, and as steady as a standing 
mark! The shot of a lifetime! Bang! And 
as the gentle breeze carries off the thin blue 
haze of the nitro you catch a glimpse of his 
falling body. Thud! The strong wings beat 
a rapid tattoo upon the dead leaves, scattering 
the brown pine needles, then are still. The 
feathers drift down wind in a cloud, and re- 
loading as you go, you hasten to gather him in. 
For a short time the fun is fast and furious; 
the covey puts for the thick of the woods singly 
and in pairs, leaving toll, let us hope, and giv- 
ing you rare sport. When all have left the 
open you go down into the gully where the noon- 
day sun scarcely penetrates. At the bottom a 
slender stream complains and gurgiles as it 
tumbles over mossy stones and twists under 
fallen tree trunks. There he goes! Your gun 
