Dec. 26, 1903.1 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
807 
nesting season of 1902. That spring two nests were ob- 
served and only a small number of eggs in each hatched, 
and the broods found were in every instance very small. 
There was little feed for them that year. The nesting 
season of igo3 promised better during the drought, but 
the last of May there came a freeze which killed the beech 
leaves and in many places the maple, and even froze th<: 
ground. This must have chilled many eggs. Then came 
the intestinal worms to attack the survivors. 
But least of all do I attribute the scarcity of birds to 
the shotgun, for there has been no more hunting in this 
section for the past five years than the preceding five, 
and five years ago birds were apparently holding their 
own. 
Woodcock have been found in little better numbers 
this season than last. A day's hunt in their covers re- 
sulted in a bag of four out of a possible six and two 
grouse, a red letter day for this season and section. 
H. A. NoYES. 
MoNGAUP Valley, Sullivan County, N. Y. — Editor 
Forest and Stream: It is not many years ago when you 
could get good shooting on Long Island for ruffed 
grouse; from there the sportsmen moved up into West- 
chester and so on into Rockland and Orange counties. 
They are now killing what few there are left in Sullivan 
county, and a more natural abode for this bird cannot 
be found than right here in Sullivan. Within the past 
twelve years I could go out and put up from one hundred 
to two hundred birds in a day; last fall if I put up fifteen 
birds in a day I was doing exceedingly well, and one 
day in particular, after a whole day's tramp, I came home 
without having flushed a single bird, and I hunted over 
as good ground for these birds as there is in the State. 
It seems to me a perfect farce to protect the Mongolian 
pheasant and leave the only American game bird we have 
at the mercy of everybody. The ruffed grouse is a bird 
you cannot propagate, while on the other hand the pheas- 
ant can be reared like barnyard fowls, eggs can be bought 
and hatched out under hens, and when large enough to 
take care of themselves can be turned loose. When it 
comes to the sport of hunting these two birds, the 
pheasant is not in it with the grouse; he will not lie like 
the grouse and give you a decent shot; nine times out of 
ten he will run like a running horse and then flush clear 
out of shot. 
It seems as if the importation of the pheasant here is 
for a few millionaires who want to ape their English 
cousins, having their hunts with their game beaters to 
drive their game into an opening, where, if they keep on 
shooting, they are sure to kill some birds. I would like 
to see a lot of game beaters driving out ruffed grouse. 
I think the bag would be small at the other end of the 
line. Is there any sport more pleasant than to go out 
with a well broken dog and to enjoy the working of your 
dog as much as you do the killing of the birds? I for one 
would like to see this coming Legislature pass a law pro- 
tecting the grouse for three years, and if things are al- 
lowed to still go on as they are now, it will not be many 
years before this, the gamest of all game birds, will be ex- 
tinct in this State. Howard Tillotson. 
PiTTSFiELD, Mass., Dcc. IS. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I wish to congratulate you on the fine appearance of 
your Christmas Number. It is a beauty; while each 
page is replete with good things, one cannot but ex- 
press appreciation of such fine illustrations as the Alba- 
tross at Home, Mule Deer in Yellowstone Park, At- 
traction, Temptation, and Satisfaction. This last must 
appeal to many sportsmen. 
Regarding your inquiry about ruffed grouse in west- 
ern Massachusetts, particularly Berkshire county, they 
have been very scarce the past season. But in New 
Brunswick, where I spent six weeks in September and 
October, they were very plenty, both birch and spruce, 
with some of the handsome juniper. 
On many trips, both to Maine and New Brunswick, 
I don't think I ever saw so many partridge in the 
deep woods as on my last trip. Last year in the same 
region, I saw but very few. Perhaps the past season 
there was more favorable than elsewhere for the young 
birds, or maybe they had heard that they were to be 
protected for three years, and had just come out of their 
retreats. Whatever the reason, they were there in very 
large numbers. 
One of the guides, returning from the settlement 
(where he had been on sick leave), remarked that had 
the law allowed, and had he been disposed, he could 
have filled a barrel on his way in. 
However, as I believe in observing the laws, also a 
rule of my own not to shoot at any other game when 
moose hunting except what I am after, I disturbed them 
only with a "shot or so" from the camera, which, as 
it turned out, were as barren of results as was the film 
that I tried to expose on a deer at thirty feet. 
I wish the grouse here in Massachusetts could have 
a close- time for three years, too. I believe it will have 
to be done or in a very few years they will be classed 
with the Labrador duck. Chas. D. Butler. 
New York, Dec. 15. — Editor Forest and Stream: A 
friend of mine who lives and hunts in New Jersey, about 
eight miles from the New York City Hall, says he 
had good woodcock shooting this fall, and would have 
done better if he had known the ground as well as he 
does now. He flushed as many as twelve in one day. 
The first day the law opened on quail he found three 
bevies, but could not do much with them, as they were 
in very wet bogs. I found quail unusually scarce and 
quit hunting them. None of your correspondents men- 
tion that woodcock are killed in great numbers all over 
the United States, by flying at night against the over- 
head trolley, telegraph and telephone wires. E. S. 
Stubble Rhymes. — V. 
Hail to the chief, the brave ruffed grouse! 
Hail to the drumming "partridge!" 
The whirring "pheasant," stately bird. 
And a scatter gun a-la-cartridge. 
We heard him on the rugged hills 
When all the woods and fields were green, 
Sounding a vernal reveille 
That echoed all the vales between; 
And there his mistress made her nest 
Beneath a prostrate, shattered pine, 
Her garb so like its mouldering bark. 
Her bright eye was the only sign 
Of life to meet one's eager gaze 
When toiling up the steep incline; 
Whence presently she led her brood 
When mountain paths were sweet in June; 
.;.^i^All nature breathing harmony 
? And every living thing in tune. 
How quickly rose her warning note; 
As quickly disappeared each chick; 
Away she limped with drooping wing. 
Hoping to lure us by the trick. 
We know my lady's ruse too well, 
And stooping down each leaf is scanned, 
Till one, raised slightly from the ground 
Is covered by a gentle hand. 
Behold a ball of brownish down 
Scarce larger than a bumblee-bee, 
Confiding in the open palm 
This royal trophy of his skill. 
And notes the pinions rounded, strong. 
The marbled breast and banded tail. 
The brown-black, iridescent ruff 
Cold gleaming as a coat of mail, 
While Tony sniffs the crested head 
And gently mouths the drooping wing. 
No other game bird can compare! 
Who know him best his praises sing. 
Then seated where the soft winds play 
In cool refreshment on his head 
The hunter scans the hill, the sky. 
Scenes beautiful before him spread: 
Ensanguined hosts the woodlands sweep 
And dip the sumachs deep in blood, 
While colors of the rainbow crest 
The billows of the crimson flood 
Which upward roll until the glow 
Of sunset skies, deep, ruby red. 
Appears a molten coronet 
Upon the forest's flaming head: 
He feels a keener, deeper joy 
Than for the game to ceaseless fag: 
It is not all of life to shoot. 
Nor all of sport to fill the bag. 
But hark! What is that measured beat 
Repeated thrice and followed by 
A thunderous roll like call to arms 
Of distant troopers of the sky? 
Scarce thirty yards adown the glade 
His lordship struts a fallen tree, 
Wings forward bent and head upstretched 
he walks ALERT AMONG THE FIRS. 
All communications for Forest and Stream must 
be directed to Forest and Stream Fub. Co^ New 
And resting there quite fearlessly: 
We note its marks and bead-like eye. 
Then set the little captive free. 
How wondrous tame maternal love 
This wild, shy, woodland bird has made! 
She flutters where the sinking sun 
Casts our attenuated shade: 
A few soft notes and scattered brood 
Are led in safety down the glade. 
When dusty August's parching breath 
Was withering every verdant thing. 
We found them cool amid the ferns 
That grow about a mountain spring 
Where oft we stopped to quench our thirst 
And listen to its waters sing. 
When Autumn's parti-colored troops 
The hills invest, the vales o'errun, I 
The scattered broods make royal sport 
For hunters with the dog and gun. ] 
How stealthily he skulks behind 
A fallen log, until his foe 
Has passed, and then on whirring wing 
To rush away and swiftly go — 
A brown streak flashing through the trees, 
Or hurtling headlong down the glen: 
In vain the tyro tries his skill! 
Fine work it is to stop him then. 
Or when the nervous setter stands 
Transfixed by odors subtle, sweet. 
He slyly runs to denser shade. 
Then up on silent wing and fleet 
Leaving the baffled pair: the dog 
Moves slowly on, then wildly flies 
Now here, now there; the hunter smiles 
And follows up the vanished prize. 
His search rewarded at the base 
Of brushy hill or fern-clad slope; 
A glimpse of wings far up the height 
And glimmering goes the sportsman's hope. 
"Faint hope fair lady never won!" 
He upward climbs nor stops to rest 
Until those tantalizing wings 
Swoop downward as he gains the crest; 
But quick as thought the brown tubes fall 
In line where last those wings were seen; 
The vales re-echo with the shot. 
The quarry falls on hillside green, 
And waves of exultation roll 
Tq brother guns: he feels the thriJI 
Of satisfaction as he strpkf | Zl^ 
/ 
He beats an autumn reveille , • 
Almost beneath the hunter's gun. 
Who scorns to shoot him as he drums. 
But waiting till that throbbing wing 
Subsides, then startled upward hums, 
A living rocket from the gloom 
Through treetops waving in the light; 
'Tis then the sportsman has a glimpse 
Of phantom brown o'er muzzle sight. 
Unconscious of the trigger play _ 
Or loud report, but holding fair. 
He marks the quarry hesitate 
And then collapse and cut the air 
In swift descent to frosty earth. ^ 
How eagerly the setter then, ' 
Hearing the welcome, kind command — 
"Hie on and fetch!" the grouse retrieves 
And drops it in his master's hand 
With every evidence of pride 
And pleasure in the strenuous strife 
Of ruffed grouse shooting in the hills — 
High water mark in sportsman's life: 
Too strenuous for carpet knights 
Who bag from armchairs many a brace; 
But Nimrods strong of wind and limb 
With eager foot and glowing face 
Pursue the quarry till the sun 
Stoops westward to his resting place. 
And trophy's won or day is done. 
Who makes a double on ruffed grouse 
Is numbered in the Red-Ruff Clan — 
Diana's first-flight favorites. 
Attain the eminence who can. 
And when the frost-king's fleecy host 
Has hushed the music of the rills. 
He walks alert among the firs 
That deck the swamps and lower hills. 
From whence the north wind's biting breath 
Has driven every tender wing. 
How dauntlessly he breasts the blast 
And vigil keeps until the spring 
Awakes the music of the streams 
And love's warm currents move the world. 
And forest choirs renew their songs 
Above th-e flowers anew unfurled. 
I 
1 
Then hail to the chief, the brave ruffed grouse! 
Call him "pheasant," call him "partridge": 
Long may he live to tmt your skill 
- With a scatter gun, a-la-cartridge. 
