30 
FOREST AND STREAM 
January, 1920 
GROUSE HUNTING IN WEST 
VIRGINIA 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream : 
O F ALL the game birds and animals 
I have hunted, none have Been to 
me so great a source of genuine pleas- 
ure and infinite satisfaction as has that 
noble game bird, the ruffed grouse. 
When the Autumn leaves turn red 
and gold and the woodland echoes with 
the scream of the jay and the noisy 
scurry of the red squirrel, as he hur- 
ries from tree to tree gathering his 
store of nuts for the long winter days; 
then, deep down in my heart, there comes 
a longing for the great outdoors and a 
desire to don my hunting togs and hie 
away across the cornfields and pasture 
lot to the forest-covered hills, where I 
know my old friend, the grouse, is to 
be found. I love to hear the muffled roar 
of his vings, as he darts out of a 
thicket of grapevines or a clump of ald- 
ers, and flies swiftly away with a hope 
of safety from his pursuer. 
Well do I remember, when a boy, the 
first ruffed grouse that I shot, and to 
this day can go to the very spot where 
he fell. I was hunting squirrels and 
was using my father’s 12 ga. scatter 
gun. I had just reentered the woods 
after crossing a meadow which sepa- 
rated the forest into two parts, and was 
proceeding along an old logging road to- 
ward some nut-bearing trees where I ex- 
pected to find squirrels. As I passed the 
top of a fallen tree, a grouse fluttered 
out and darted away on swift wing 
among the trees. Quickly I raised the 
gun and pressed the trigger. Imagine 
my surprise and delight when, at the 
roar of the gun, the grouse dropped to 
the ground dead. It proved to be a large 
cock and I thought it one of the most 
beautiful birds I had ever seen. The 
bagging of a grizzly would not now fur- 
nish me half the pleasure that I felt 
as I examined my prize. I lost all in- 
terest in squirrels for that day and, 
shouldering my gun, I hurried home to 
exhibit my kill. 
Only a few years ago, this bird was 
to be found in plentiful numbers, 
throughout the New England states and 
as far south as Virginia, hut today, it 
pains me to say, he is growing scarcer 
and scarcer, and I fear in a few years 
he will rarely be met with. 
Of all the game birds found in North 
America, the ruffed grouse is one of 
the most difficult to bag. Many times, 
in my early hunting days, have I gone 
forth with high hopes of bagging at 
least a couple of grouse, only to return 
at nightfall #mpty handed with my sup- 
ply of shells sadly depleted. I consider 
myself a pretty fair shot, but even now 
when hunting this bird, if I can score 
LETTERS, 
QUESTIONS 
AND ANSWEE, 
on an average of one shot in four or 
five, I am not ashamed of my skill. 
One day, late in October, my cousin, 
John H., and I decided that we would 
spend that day tramping through the 
brusk with anticipations of getting a 
few shots at grouse. 
The morning air was crisp and cool 
and the dewdrops sparkled, like so many 
diamonds, among the golden leaves, as 
the Autumn sun peered forth from the 
deep blue sky. 
John was carrying a 12 ga. gun and I 
was armed with a 20. Crossing the 
valley we climbed a sloping hillside, 
which was covered with a scraggy 
growth of timbers, briars and grape- 
vines. The ruffed grouse is fond of 
the seeds of wild grapes and where these 
grow in abundance, he can generally be 
found at this time of the year. 
After climbing up near the ridge, we 
started around the hill toward the west. 
We were creeping along very slowly, our 
eyes and ears on the alert, and with guns 
held in readiness to fire at the first 
glimpse of our game. We were nearing 
a clump of alders, John slightly in the 
lead, when out fluttered a bird which flew 
with the swiftness of an arrow through 
the overhanging limbs of a gnarled oak. 
John quickly pumped a couple of loads 
of shot in the direction of the fleeting 
bird, only to bring down a shower of 
leaves as the prize disappeared from 
sight. At the crack of the gun another 
bird flushed a little ways to our right, 
but the underbrush was so thick here 
that we did not even get a glimpse of 
him. 
We looked around carefully, and after 
assuring ourselves that there were no 
more birds in the vicinity, started on 
again in the direction which the first bird 
had flown. About two hundred yards 
further on, we rounded a bend in the 
hill and were nearing a thicket of 
scraggy hickory and oak intermingled 
with wild grapevines, when three grouse 
flushed one after another. John brought 
down the first, missed the second, while 
I scored on the third. These birds were 
both large cocks and very fat. 
Depositing our kill in our hunting 
coats, we now decided to cross the ridge 
to the south and hunt the other side of 
the hill. 
Upon reaching the top of the ridge, 
we climbed up on top of a high fence 
to rest a few minutes before continuing 
our tramp. We had been sitting quietly 
for a short time when suddenly, without 
warning, a fine old grouse fluttered out 
of a fallen tree top directly in 'front of 
us and darted swiftly away. John 
jumped to the ground and, as the bird 
crossed an opening between the trees, 
brought him down with a single shot 
from his gun. This bird had been 
hiding, doubtless hoping we would 
pass on without molesting him, when he 
became tired of waiting and decided to 
change his location. Climbing back to 
the top of the fence, we lighted our 
pipes and smoked and talked for a half 
hour and then continued our hunt. For 
a couple of hours more we tramped 
through the brush, flushing a number of 
birds and finally succeeded in bagging 
another one apiece. At the end of that 
time we found ourselves at the edge of 
the woods nearest home and, as it was 
getting well along in the afternoon, we 
were beginning to feel the need of rest 
and food ; so we shouldered our guns and 
continued across the pasture toward the 
house, with five of the finest of America’s 
game birds in our hunting coats, and a 
feeling of satisfaction in our hearts 
which nothing but a day in the great 
outdoors can produce. 
H. H. Hunter, West Va. 
MOOSE HUNTING 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
W HEN I was sixteen years old one 
of my Christmas presents was a 
subscription to Forest and Stream, and 
I have been a subscriber now for four 
years. 
If I live to be eighty I hope still to 
read the magazine which makes such a 
strong appeal to the lover of real sport 
and the great out-doors. . 
The accounts of big game hunting held 
an especial interest for me and I finally 
decided to take a try at the Canada 
moose. 
Last summer in talking things over 
with a friend, Mr. J. Dominy, of Brook- 
haven, L. I., I laid plans for a hunt in 
New Brunswick where he and his broth- 
er have gone for a number of years past. 
He .gave me a great deal of useful in- 
formation and wrote to his own guide, 
Martin Farriher, but he unfortunately 
was engaged. 
I bought a Springfield rifle and had it 
fitted with a sporting stock. Fifty prac- 
tice shots at a small target at 100 yards 
proved tfie gun to be very accurate and 
when I put two bullets through the mid- 
dle of a two gallon can at 150 yards I 
felt that I could really hit something. 
On September 22, 1919, I started for 
