October, 1922 
441 
like lightning — well, perhaps you get a 
shot and perhaps you don’t. With a 
broad brim on your hat it is not possible 
to get that instant location of sound that 
the snap shooter gets with a brimless 
hat. To the man who is quick on the 
trigger, early autumn shooting with its 
dense foliage has no terrors. 
I have tried various methods of carry- 
ing shells but a belt is the most satis- 
factory way for me. Your shells never 
get mixed or lost. Have a shoulder 
strap to support the weight of your am- 
munition while the belt itself hangs very 
loosely. A tight belt is an abomination 
and will put you out of the race early 
in the day. 
A canvas coat with plenty of pocket 
room and so constructed as not to pull 
on the arms when raised to shoot will 
fill the bill. Put your hunting license 
in your coat pocket and keep it there. 
You may be called upon to produce it 
at any time. If you are asked to show 
it, don’t get peeved for the more times 
you are asked to produce it the better 
the interests of the sportsmen are being- 
cared for. If you 
are hunting with- 
out a license and 
breaking the law, 
the sooner you are 
apprehended the 
better for other 
sportsmen. 
I OPENED my 
^ gun case after 
obtaining permis- 
sion to hunt on the 
property I had 
driven to, and took 
out my gun. It is 
a sixteen - gauge, 
26-inch barrel, 
right cylinder, left 
modified choke, 
weight about 
pounds. I use a 
load of 2 p 2 drams 
or 20 grains of 
powder and 1 
ounce of number 8 
shot. Throughout 
the grouse season 
I use no other 
load. It is effec- 
tive on anything in 
Connecticut from 
quail to pheasant 
at ranges that any- 
one expecting to 
bag game would 
not consider exces- 
sive. Of course, I 
have made freak 
shots same as most 
everybody else, but I don’t get crazy 
about them or the gun that did it. Eor 
instance, one afternoon I came over the 
brow of a hill in an open pasture. Down 
below me were two big chestnut trees 
and while I progressed up jumped three 
grouse. They were heading for a wood 
some distance away. I looked at them 
and naturally took it for granted that 
they were out of range as in all reason 
they were. Then I decided to try a shot. 
so I raised my gun and giving them an 
enormous lead pressed the rear trigger. 
A miss of course. I then swung the gun 
on them and gave the same bird the 
right barrel, the cylinder, mind you. 
The bird turned over and came down. 
When I got to the spot where that bird 
fell and looked back to where I fired 
from, I was amazed at the distance. 
One single shot had penetrated the bird’s 
head. Just a freak shot and nothing 
more. No credit to me or to the gun. 
At that range, the ounce of shot must 
have been scattered over half the pas- 
ture. 
I have already mentioned that it had 
become quite cloudy and threatened rain. 
By the time I had gotten my gun to- 
gether and had slipped on my cartridge 
belt and hunting coat, I made up my 
mind that it was only a few minutes to 
rain. 
“Just my luck !’’ I growled as I squint- 
ed at the lowering clouds and then hur- 
ried for the brush. I hate hunting in 
the wet but if one gets started before 
the rain it is much easier to keep going 
then than to actually start out in the rain. 
I didn’t waste any time prospecting 
around. I knew every square rod of 
this farm and headed for a bunch of 
woods near at hand. A circular-shaped 
swamp full of tall maples and oaks. No 
underbrush to speak of in the center of 
this swamp but around the entire cir- 
cumference was a thick growth of brush 
of all kinds with many groups of savins. 
Wild grapevines here and there with 
many clumps of thick bull briers. Old 
decayed logs and stumps were numerous 
and all of them showed recent traces of 
grouse picking and scratching. 
I started in to circle this swamp and 
zig-zagged along to cover all the ground. 
As I was pushing my way through a 
dense place where it was impossible to 
see more than twenty feet ahead on ac- 
• count of the leaves, I heard a grouse 
rise out in front of me. I knew pretty 
nearly where that bird would head for. 
Others had selected the same spot in 
years gone by ; a corner formed by the 
junction of two stone walls and filled 
with white birches and bayberry bushes. 
I hustled right over to that place and 
forced my way right through the brush, 
not attempting to sneak up on the bird 
because that would be the likeliest way 
of flushing the bird out of range. Don’t 
try to crawl up on a grouse. Let him 
hear you coming and the more noise you 
make — well, perhaps not the better, but 
it certainly does no harm. If, when you 
get right in close to where you feel 
certain that the bird is hiding he fails 
to flush, just stop 
in your tracks and 
keep perfectly 
quiet for a few mo- 
ments. Don’t move. 
If there is a grouse 
there, he cannot 
stand the strain 
and will go whiz- 
zing from cover. 
You get in your 
work thsn if you 
are quick enough. 
This same trick 
I tried on the 
grouse I was after. 
I crashed my way 
into the brush and 
stopped. 
“Whirr!” Right 
behind me the bird 
jumped and 
plunged through 
the birches. I 
wheeled and 
clapped my little 
sixteen to my 
shoulder. Almost 
before it set snug, 
it set snugger from 
the recoil as a 
charge of number 
8 shot cut a path 
through the leaves. 
A miss, and then 
the left barrel 
shattered the top 
of a goodly-sized 
birch behind which 
the grouse twisted. 
I dropped two empty shells on the 
ground and, nothing discouraged, com- 
muned with myself in this style: “That 
is a young bird and he will fly in a 
straight line. I’ll lay a bec-Iine across 
this white birch patch and put him up 
again surely.” 
I did. He jumped in dense cover and 
just as he topped the birches I let him 
have one barrel and scored another miss. 
{Continued on page 468) 
In the deep seclusion of the woods the ruffed grouse drums content 
