RUFFED GROUSE AND WOODCOCK. 



U. B. 



Toward the close of last August, a friend 

 and I decided on a day after woodcock. 

 The place we fixed on is known as Weaver's 

 swamp, in the Southern part of Columbia 

 county, New York. We had selected this 

 locality because the dry weather had driven 

 the birds from the smaller marshes. Here 

 were springs and streams. 



The day of our hunt was hot; such a day 

 as fairly curls one's gun barrels, and gives 

 high pressure indeed to the powder. Our 

 guns were Bakers; mine a 12 gauge, a trifle 

 over 7 pounds in weight. Poor Jim took a 

 heavy 10 gauge duck gun. Hurriedly pick- 

 ing up the case in the dark, he did not 

 discover his mistake until the hunting 

 grounds were reached. His shells, he said, 

 were loaded with $ l / 2 drams of powder and 

 1^4 ounces of shot. After hearing the 1st 

 discharge, I took it he meant pounds in- 

 stead of drams and ounces. 



We arrived at the swamp just as it was 

 light enough to tell the rich black mud 

 from the heaps of decayed leaves. After 

 putting the horse in a neighboring barn, 

 we started to hunt, but as it was too dark 

 to make out anything in the bushes, we sat 

 down. That is, we intended to sit on a log, 

 but it proved to be only a dark shadow 

 over a streak of the softest mud I ever sat 

 down in. We then got out of the bushes 

 and held down a rail fence until sunrise. 



A walk of 15 minutes in the alders 

 brought us to solid ground. As we had 

 been wading in muck up to our knees, 

 our faces and hands covered with mos- 

 quitoes, this was some relief. The brush 

 was almost impassable, but we worked 

 around and sent the dog through. Follow- 

 ing his movements among the bushes, we 

 soon saw him crouch. At the command, 

 " Go on," he took a step, and away went a 

 bird. I let go an ounce of io's, propelled 

 by 234 drams of nitro, while Jim turned 

 his duck gun loose. The result was what 

 might have been expected. The dog 

 brought in a mouthful of feathers with a 

 few fragments of skin and bones clinging 

 to them. 



" Robin," I murmured. 



"Holy smoke, no! I'm sure it was a 

 woodcock," said Jim. There the argument 

 ended, for it couldn't be proven either way. 



The dog again stopped a short distance 

 ahead, by an old log on a knoll covered 

 with ferns. We advanced, and 2 birds 

 flushed. As is usually the case, we fired 

 at the same one, the 2d getting away; then 

 followed a wade through mud knee deep for 

 half an hour, with a result of 7 more wood- 

 cock. 



We were now at the North side of the 



alders, near a huckleberry field. Of all 

 things that tempt ruffed grouse, a huckle- 

 berry field stands first. Before we were 

 over the fence, the dog came to a stand. 

 The click of safeties, or the sharp " go on," 

 started a dozen birds, which scattered in all 

 directions. I missed my 1st, but redeemed 

 myself by grassing 2 with my left. Jim 

 brought down 2, the 2d with a broken 

 wing. This one started toward the swamp, 

 he in hot pursuit with an empty gun. 



As I expected, he had not gone a dozen 

 steps when up started 3 grouse with a flut- 

 tering of wings that brought him to his 

 senses. It was amusing to see him try to 

 shoot with an empty gun, and then to hear 

 him cuss because it would not go off. He 

 joined in the laugh, remarking it was a 

 mighty lucky thing for the birds. 



The dog having laid the dead grouse at 

 my feet, I took no further notice of him 

 while talking to Jim. When we were ready 

 to move on, he was not in sight. A hasty 

 search failing to reveal him, we walked on 

 toward the alders, in the direction the 

 wounded bird had gone. We found the 

 dog a few rods away, crouching in the rank 

 growth; but a walk all around him failed 

 to show what he was pointing. A closer 

 search revealed a small hole almost under 

 the dog's nose. Jim, in rather a reckless 

 way, reached in his hand, and drew out the 

 lost grouse, dead. 



The next move was to look up the rest 

 of the covey. Several had swung around 

 toward a knoll dotted with bushes. Here 

 the dog pointed. We advanced slowly and 

 had almost reached the pointing dog, when, 

 with a great flutter, a single grouse rose — 

 an old bird. He twisted and dodged in a 

 way that showed he was familiar with what 

 was coming. " Boom — bom," then 2 spite- 

 ful " cracks " from the nitro powder, but 

 they served only to hasten his departure. 



The setter started ahead at the reports, 

 utterly disregarding my " come in, sir." 



At his second jump, up rose a whole 

 covey of young grouse. The old bird cer- 

 tainly had a head on him that would have 

 done credit to a larger body. Many sea- 

 sons devoted to the art of escaping shot 

 guns, served his family well. How nicely 

 he had calculated! Every young bird was 

 safe in the thick alders before fresh shells 

 were in our guns. There we stood trying 

 to force cartridges into the chambers base 

 first, or, jamming them, concluded they 

 were swollen, and tried others. 



Who has not been there? Do not smile, 

 old veteran. This was not the first covey 

 of grouse James and I ever pointed a gun 

 at. On the contrary, we have hunted these 



