THE OPENING OF THE SEASON. 



R. B. BUCKHAM. 



" She paints with white and red the moors, 

 To draw the nations out of doors." 



— Emerson. 



In autumn it seems as if Nature had de- 

 signed that man should be constrained to 

 go to the fields or the woods. Certain it is 

 at this season she bedecks herself in her 

 most attractive garb — royal purple, scarlet 

 and' gold; and indifferent indeed is he who 

 can withstand her charms. Earth and sky 

 are mellow with ripeness; the very air 

 sparkles; while tree and bush and shrub 

 seem striving to outdo each other in 

 showering down their golden harvest. 

 Simply to be abroad at such a time is a 

 pleasure indeed; but to the sportsman this 

 time brings other joys as well. It is then 

 the ruffed grouse, king of game birds, 

 throws down the gauntlet to the gunner, 

 challenging him, with startling whir of 

 wing, to a trial of skill and endurance; to a 

 test of woodcraft. 



To outwit the wily bird is not always an 

 easy task. The ruffed grouse, or partridge, 

 as he is often called, is strong and swift of 

 wing. In spite of his pinions being com- 

 paratively small, he is a marvellously rapid 

 flyer; and the whirlwind of leaves where he 

 is flushed, bears testimony that no lack of 

 energy is back of his beating wings. 



On rising from the ground, the flight of 

 the grouse is generally straight for the tree- 

 tops. Through and among them, after hav- 

 ing gained sufficient headway, he goes, sail- 

 ing and twisting, tipping and tilting, in an 

 astonishing manner, until at length, his 

 fright in a measure abating, he settles into 

 some thick evergreen, or on the earth 

 again. During this first upward rush is, in 

 my opinion, the time to shoot. To be sure, 

 there is the startling roar of wings to un- 

 nerve one, but this nervousness is over- 

 come in time, and only adds to the zest of 

 the moment. 



Another peculiarity in the flight of this 

 bird is observed later in the season, when 

 the first snow is at hand, and when, from 

 having been hunted, he is wild and sus- 

 picious. At such times he will often perch 

 high in some lofty evergreen, at the head 

 of a ravine, and on the approach ot the 

 hunter, will- launch forth from his watch- 

 tower with a long, downward dive, thus al- 

 most instantly acquiring an enormous ve- 

 locity. It is not, however, the vagaries of 

 flight alone that make the grouse so diffi- 

 cult to shoot; for his favorite haunts are 

 in the densest and most inaccessible woods, 

 and though naturally somewhat stupid, on 

 acquaintance with man he becomes shy and 

 suspicious. 



The nature and habitat of this bird are a 



study worth the attention of every sports- 

 man. In fact, he must, if he would meet 

 with success, apply himself to the close ob- 

 servation of his ways, preserving in mem- 

 ory each incident remarked, no matter of 

 what seeming insignificance. In this way 

 the huntsman will become familiar with his 

 habits, and his cunning will be easy to 

 master. From many a covert that would 

 yield naught but disappointment to the 

 tyro, the observant gunner will gather a 

 good bag. 



The time of the white and red moors of 

 the poet is now at hand. Anxiously has the 

 sportsman been awaiting its coming. Long 

 has he watched for the forest to again float 

 on the breeze its gaudy-colored ensign. 

 May his patience be rewarded! May he 

 fare as well as I did, some years ago! That 

 hunt is still fresh in my memory. 



For a month or more, my brother Joel 

 and I had been uneasily waiting for cool 

 weather and the opening of the season, to 

 try our luck once more with the grouse. 

 In every conceivable way we had been 

 whiling the time — polishing our guns again 

 and again, until they fairly shone; school- 

 ing and encouraging our dog, a black 

 cocker spaniel; and discussing the haunts 

 and the peculiarities of our favorite bird. 

 Our plan was to open the campaign back 

 among the mountains, where, we had heard, 

 the grouse were unusually plentiful. The 

 day came at last, and in the early morning 

 we were far on our way and well up in the 

 thick evergreen forests. 



Anyone whose knowledge of the woods 

 has been gained solely from suburban 

 woodlands, can hardly conceive of the 

 grandeur of primitive forests. Beneath 

 one's feet is the brown woodland carpet — 

 leaves of evergreens that have fallen year 

 after year, interwoven with mosses and 

 lichens — softer and thicker than any of 

 man's devising, and much less noisy. 

 Above are the giant firs and spruces. The 

 solemn, peaceful stillness makes it seem 

 like consecrated ground. 



This is the stronghold of the grouse, and 

 with feelings akin to awe we reached the 

 depth of the woods. Hardly a sound was 

 heard, save the ceaseless soughing of the 

 wind in the treetops. " Not a vestige of 

 life is here," one would have said. Our 

 dog, however, was of a contrary mind. 

 The silence was quickly broken by the ring 

 of his cheery bark and the boom and whir 

 of wings. 



If there is anyone who is unable to com- 

 prehend what pleasure the gunner gets 

 from his sport; if any man fails to see how 

 genuine amusement can be gained from 



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