The Prairie Sharp-tailed Grouse 209 



iron chief, from which streamed down his snowy 

 locks, half veiling the flash of his silver breast- 

 plate, where a glacier clung; and behind, blue 

 silence, which they alone could pierce. 



Somehow, I thought of the old Norse sagas, of 

 god-like chiefs with shields and helms of magic 

 — grim wardens of the honor of the North. For 

 minute after minute I gazed, and then — the 

 guide broke in: — 



" Yonder's chickens in the grass ! " 



In an instant the spell was broken. Forgotten 

 was the chief, his body-guard of ancients, and the 

 dream of the useless, used-to-be, and I asked 

 " Where 'bouts ? " It was a shocking come-down, 

 but then Nimrod still lives, while we only read 

 about the other fellows. 



Sticking up among the grass were stripy-look- 

 ing, gopher-like objects, which could only be 

 chickens' necks, and in a minute there was action. 



Whur ! Tuck-a-tuck — Bim ! Burr ! Tuck- 

 a-tuck — Bim ! Two fell beneath whorls of shat- 

 tered feathers, while a hand flew through the 

 reloading movements. Then a lot rose together 

 and one barrel did the work, which the second 

 failed to duplicate. 



" Load — quick ! " warned the guide. 



Then a last one — there always is a last one — 

 flushed and went tuck-a-tucking across from left 

 to right. In a moment the trim tubes were lead- 



