THE RUFFED GROUSE 39 
a gun-muzzle below him. Well, better luck 
next time, let us hope.’’ 
Fifty yards farther on, the same careful 
drawing to a final ‘‘stagey’’ pose. Whir-r-r-r! 
and a big cock partridge dashes up into the shel- 
ter of the birches above us. Bang! ‘‘Fetch 
him, good boy! That’s better. That’s’’—In 
the act of holding the bird to his master’s hand 
the dog has wheeled and pointed, carefully put- 
ting down his trophy and moving in a step or 
two. The monologue flags, then ceases. Right 
at the dog’s side I wait, then give a low chirrup 
for him to go on. This one I must have and 
things look most promising. Whir-r-r-r! 
Bang! ‘‘What!’’ Bang! and at the second 
shot the bird tumbles in a cloud of feathers, a 
long forty yards away, close to the thick woods 
on the hilltop. Together, dog and I, we scram- 
ble through the briars to the summit, the 
pointer just a bit in front. He pulls up short 
and points. ‘‘All right, old man. Yes, it was 
just here he fell. Fetch! No? Well, I can 
pick him up myself,’? and so I do—er—not! - 
With a thunderous roar of hurrying wings the 
bird flushes under foot, rocketing into the tree 
