THE RUFFED GROUSE 41 
a couple of cartridges into the chambers and 
aim at the hindmost just as the woods are clos- 
ing in upon it, but return to sanity, just then 
catching sight of the fact that all this time old 
Level-head hasn’t moved a muscle. In an in- 
stant more I stand beside him, pull my hat down 
a bit tighter, draw a couple of long breaths, 
test the safety catch of the gun to be sure it is 
in the right place, and by these processes of 
mental philosophy manage to steady my nerves 
a trifle. A low cluck to the dog and he moves 
in, his tail wagging ever so slightly. Again he 
stops, and at my approach up jump two big 
fantails, not ten feet away, bursting out from 
the junipers with the roar of a tornado. A 
quick snapshot (a clear case of suicide on the 
bird’s part, for I know not where I held) ac- 
counts for one, and holding well over the other, 
who is climbing skyward to clear the trees, he, 
too, comes down! Can I believe it? A double! 
This is not one of the shots I forget when re- 
counting this day’s doings! 
Up on the hill-top where we go in pursuit we 
find the other members of the covey. But 
things are different here. Cover is plenty and 
though the birds lie close enough, the ever- 
