170 The Grouse Family 



crimson pales behind the dusky hills. The 

 ruffed grouse whirls the painted leaves as his 

 swift fans thrill the silence ; small Bob, too, 

 rouses mimic thunders as he rips the dappled sun- 

 shine with tiny might ; and now and then, e'en to 

 this day, a swift gray arrow cleaves the still, sweet 

 air and strikes its target of glowing foliage. The 

 thought that this lone arrow may be the last of 

 all those myriad flights which once assailed these 

 lichened keeps and vine-hung battlements, should 

 quench the war-spark in the eye and slacken the 

 ready finger just in time, for the pigeon is too 

 rare for one to be destroyed. 



The great plains, while lacking the beauty of 

 foliage and picturesque irregularities of Wiscon- 

 sin, yet possess a charm peculiarly their own — a 

 breadth and power, somewhat like that of the 

 ocean, which gives a sense of freedom and daring 

 to whoever trails far out and sees the dim blue 

 of distant forests rimming like fading shores the 

 huge, halted billows of grass. To camp night 

 after night amid sweet grass, to trail day after 

 day over a silent expanse, where nature never 

 sounds a discordant note, to toil until weary of a 

 fascinating task, to eat when hungry, and to sleep 

 till thoroughly rested and refreshed, is no bad 

 medicine for a man whose nerves may have been 

 racked by the ceaseless throb and jar of some 

 busy city. And there is another, which to many 



