SHOOTING THE WOODS GROUSE 369 
uproarious wings, and a dozen or more birds went 
darkling through the green, some wheeling out of the 
top, some scudding straight away, some darting low 
toward the edges. Quick as a flash I dropped on one 
knee and sent a charge through the leaves where one’s 
fanlike tail was vanishing on a sharp curve as I raised 
the gun. But by the time the shot reached there it 
was gone, and by the time I discovered it was gone 
the rest were all gone. But dimly through an opening 
I could see my friend on the hillside, with half a dozen 
grouse swiftly driving toward him. One went past 
him like an arrow feathered with white and brown, and 
was gone before he could raise his gun. Another, 
whirling into sight above the brush, with its full white 
breast, broadly mottled with black, brightly flashing in 
the sun, just a trifle too late for me to shoot at, went 
spinning by him with unruffled feathers at the report 
of his gun. And then five or six more went roaring 
on past, and above and behind him, while he, in con- 
fusion, shifting his gun from one side to the other, 
and hardly knowing what to shoot at, let them all go 
by, and stood as if looking for more to come. 
Few American sportsmen have had so much expe- 
rience in upland shooting as Mr. B. Waters, whose 
excursions have covered the game fields of almost the 
whole United States east of the Rocky Mountains. 
Famous as a handler of hunting dogs, and equally fa- 
mous as a crack shot, both at the traps and in the field, 
his views on the shooting of any game bird will receive 
respectful attention, for he is past master of the art. 
