THE REFERENDUM 



383 



After dinner we went over to a ridge 

 across from the house, and chased three 

 grouse around all afternoon. We climbed 

 over grapevines, thrashed through tree-tops, 

 shot and missed and shot and "feathered" 

 birds, till finally Dave said, "I'll kill the next 

 one or quit." Not a minute later one went 

 booming to Dave's left down a steep bank. 

 Bang! — feathers — Bang! — more feathers — 

 see him wince? He begins to sail. "He's 

 gone to the woods at the log sheep-shed," 

 said Dave. "D — " ! "No, he isn't either. He 

 dropped beside that white oak at the fence." 

 "Aw ! You're crazy, man. He is gone. I'll 

 kill him next year," replied Dave. 



"I tell you he's there ! I saw him fall !" 



"Come on home. You did not sleep any 

 last night. You will tell me next that you 

 killed that one at the black haw bush." 



No use to argue with Dave. He was at the 

 white oak, though. Dave found him next 

 morning. As we trudged homeward, Dave 

 berated me for missing so many fine chances. 

 Now, you all know how hard it was for me 

 to kill those extremely difficult birds of 

 mine, but Dave's birds, "Why, Dave, you 

 ought to have killed them with a popgun." 

 Everyone's chances are easy but ours, are 

 they not? 



We cleaned our guns that evening in medi- 

 tative silence, mentally vowing that we would 

 kill more grouse to-morrow or — the alterna- 

 tive was too awful to think about. Two busy 

 days, with a forty-mile ride all night between 

 them, sent me to bed very soon after supper. 

 I was about worn to a fringe. A peep out to 

 see how busy the weather man had been, 

 showed us a world of large, feathery snow- 

 flakes being whirled along by a half gale of 

 wind the next morning. 



"Pretty blue outlook for hunting," growled 

 Dad. 



"I think we're being treated pretty white," 

 said Bun. 



An old boot followed a cleaning rod in his 

 direction, but he had vanished. After break- 

 fast, as Dave and I picked up our guns, 

 Dad said. "Are you going, boy?" "Sure, 

 I'm going ! That's what I came for. Are 

 you?" 



"Well, you are a durned foolish boy, but I 

 guess I was like you about thirty-five years 

 ago." Down the hill we went in the flying 

 snow till we had crossed "Boyd's" bridge and 

 reached the "Long" woods. Then our guns 

 were dosed with some Repeater shells con- 

 taining 40 grs. L. & R. smokeless and i l /% oz. 

 chilled No. 7^2's, and with the injunction, 

 "Don't forget to shoot,'' we plunged into the 

 brush. 



Just as we started in, a grouse rose at some 

 distance in front of us and we heard the 

 sound of his wings die away in the distance. 

 "Feeding in the dogwoods," commented Dave. 

 Soon I saw a grouse track on a log. "You 

 were fooled, Dave; here is where he was." I 



walked up to the log and looked over. 

 Whiz-z-z ! he went up almost in my very face, 

 scaring me until I stood entirely on my heels. 

 I threw my gun to my face and tried to break 

 off a sapling three inches in diameter in try- 

 ing to get in line with that bird. Have you 

 been there? Would you swear? (Dave 

 laughed like a fool.) 



Dave soon flushed and killed a bird on a 

 very difficult chance to his right in heavy 

 brush. We proceeded along a little ravine, 

 each one taking a side, in the direction of the 

 first two birds. We stopped to rest near a 

 fallen hickory tree, and while standing talk- 

 ing a grouse flushed at the hickory stump at 

 Dave's feet and started down that hollow 

 with the wind helping to push him along 

 when it could catch up. 



Dave felt twice for him, but did not reach 

 him. Then I tried, leading him fully the 

 length of my gun barrel, and he dropped like 

 lead. "You must learn to look at your game 

 when you shoot, Davie," said I. 



"Blind luck !" responded Dave in disgust. 

 In the next hundred yards, one raised and 

 dipped to the left down the hill, and I over- 

 shot him a foot. The reoort of my gun started 

 a second one, which went to the right toward 

 the tree-tops, and I undershot him. Then 

 three nice clear shots, and me with an empty 

 gun ! Dave got two. "You must learn to aim 

 at them, Mikey," said Dave. I did not say 

 one word. 



We expected to find a ruffed beauty in a 

 tree top near the edge of the woods, as it was 

 in a favorite feeding ground. Reaching the 

 tree-top, Dave said, "I'll rout him. You shoot 

 him." He sent a heavy limb crashing into 

 the tree-top. No response. "I guess he ain't." 

 B-r-r-r-r ! Out he went like a skyrocket. My 

 first shot made one leg drop limp, and as he 

 crossed a clear spot in good light I followed 

 it with the left, held dead on. 



Still going? Yes, feebly, but surely going. 

 See, he slowly settles. "He is in the red brush 

 there at the fence, I think." "He had plenty,'' 

 said Dave. He wa, not there, nor anywhere 

 else apparently. After hunting for him for 

 half an hour, I found him sitting in the open 

 woods near a stump, fifty yards from the red 

 brush. He was almost "all in," but gamely 

 tried to peck my hand when I reached for 

 him. The effort was too much for him. and 

 he collapsed, stone dead. He was the largest, 

 finest cock grouse I ever killed, and I never 

 felt prouder than when I gentlv smoothed his 

 feathers and stowed him away in my old cor- 

 duroy coat. 



Our watches said noon just then, and we 

 left birds in the cover and went home to tell 

 the others how easy it is to miss some of the 

 birds you shoot at. We went home that after- 

 noon, and on the following Sunday my wife 

 agreed with me that the grouse is the finest 

 table bird in Pennsylvania. 



G. M. Philips. 



