THE RUFFED GROUS 33 
through the brushy screen at the sound of their 
wings—pull trigger at the glimmer of a feather, 
or through the leaves where the bird may be— 
taking every chance, however slight, to bring 
this game to bag. I think all ‘‘brush gunners’’ 
will agree that this is not the easiest bird to hit 
when once on the wing—a mere flash of quick- 
moving, roaring wings, and a glimmer of sun- 
light on his russet-brown back—gone! Per- 
haps the cunning rascal marked where you 
stood and ran swiftly to get a thick hemlock be- 
tween himself and your gun, then a leap into 
the air, an arrowy flight, and when you have 
hurried to one side to get a sight at him he is 
two gunshots away. 
‘‘Don’t they ever give you a sitting shot?’’ 
O, yes! When you are tangled up on the points 
of a wire fence, with one barb stuck into the 
middle of your back just where it cannot be 
reached with either hand, and another induce- 
ment to profanity has a grip on the leg of your 
trousers,—at such times a grouse will often 
‘‘flap’’ lazily from the ground into a tree right 
over your back and perch where you can see 
him only by twisting your neck almost off, but. 
shoot? O, no! There he will sit and criticise 
