522 
FOREST AND STREAM 
October, 1919 
THE OLD DRUM-MAJOR OF MT. RAT 
OF ALL SOUNDS HEARD AMID THE SILENCE OF NEW ENGLAND WOODS NONE IS MORE 
BAFFLING OR ENTICING THAN THE DRUMMING ROLL OF THE RUFFED GROUSE 
By EDWARD RUSSELL WILBUR 
S HE was one of a family of eight, 
and the first time I saw her she 
was in the old wood box back of the 
kitchen stove. The largest pup in the 
litter, she began to assert her rights 
from the day she came into the world 
until the day she “went over the top” 
of the box and landed on the kitchen floor 
in front of Old Tom, the cat. Here 
came the first rough touch of her young 
life, for Tom had no use for pups and 
his claws were sharp. From that day 
on she waged deliberate war on all cats 
and her first real triumph in life came on 
the day she put Thomas up the cherry 
tree and kept him there while she dic- 
tated terms. Thomas came back to the 
kitchen saucepan in fear and trepida- 
tion, but my lady met him, accepted his 
sincere apologies, kissed him on both 
cheeks and many a siesta thereafter they 
took together, folded in each other’s arms. 
We christened her Bess; she became 
a part of our family; followed the horse 
and the wood-shod sled to and from the 
old wood lot, pointing frogs and grass- 
hoppers en route! She took a beating 
from the old hen who resented her in- 
spection of her fluflfy family! She was 
stung by the bees; she was locked in the 
corn crib and lost; all the mischief a 
puppy could do she did, and yet with all 
she edged her way in closer to our hearts 
and grew, loved by all, into much wis- 
dom and many years. 
The hills of old New England, the alder 
swamps, the birch and chestnut groves 
became her halls of learning; from them, 
in unfolding the scents and trails of 
grouse and woodcock she perfected her 
training and be- 
c a m e, in cunning 
and field dog wis- 
dom, the greatest 
of them all. She 
came from a long 
line of illustrious 
setters, the real, 
old-fashioned stock, 
sturdy, with a won- 
derful square muz- 
zled head and a 
pair of big brown 
eyes with the high 
lights shining in 
them — flashes from 
a wonderful brain 
— although in t h e 
skull of a dog. 
Her first trip 
afield showed her 
natural liking for 
the game birds of 
her native state 
and before we put 
aside the gun and 
closed her first sea- 
son I knew I owned 
a partridge dog — 
one of those that 
by foot or body 
We christened her Bess 
scent, in dry and shifting leaves, or 
on the rocky side hills, could locate and 
outwit that greatest of all American 
game birds, the ruffed grouse of New 
England. Back again my memory trails 
to the days afield with this wonder- 
ful dog. I can see her now as she 
flits back and forth across the brown 
leaves, suddenly to stiffen and draw 
along, up to and over an old stone wall, 
under a tangled grape vine, into an old 
deserted apple orchard, careful as a cat 
where the cover was thin — that uncanny 
nose picking out the body scent; finally 
to stand tense and sure, those big, brown 
eyes and the twitching jaws, all signs of 
life in a beautiful picture. And then — 
well, you have missed the full measure 
in the glass if memory does not hold 
for you a picture of one shot well made, 
one grouse well earned. 
And so the years went by and each 
autumn as the October haze and the fall- 
ing yellow tokens heralded the coming 
open season, Bess would hang to my 
heels, keen for the trail and the opening 
day. 
Down through the hills winding in and 
about over a rocky bed runs the River 
Shepaug — on either side brushy flats 
thickly covered by alder and birch with 
here and there a deserted orchard of old 
apple trees, dropping its fruit — fit food 
for the rabbit and partridge people. High 
on either side, “rock ribbed and ancient 
as the sun,” the laurel draped hills sen- 
tinel the valley, and on guard at the en- 
trance, camouflaged in green and gold 
to hide its scars, stands old Mt. Rat. 
O NE October day after a morning 
tramp, Bess and I rested on the 
wooden bridge midway in the val- 
ley. I was lost in thought and the beau- 
ties of the painted scene. The noisy river 
rushed along under the bridge, carrying 
here and there the red and yellow leaves 
from the hills. Bess, I think, was pass- ' 
ing her time in the land of dreams, when 
away upon the hillside a muffled roar 
brought both of us to attention, and in- 
troduced us to the Old Drum-Major of 
Mt. Rat. I have heard the wild bugling 
of the elk, the bellow of the Canadian 
moose, the sharp bark of the fox prowl- 
ing in the moonlight, the call of the night 
heron, but of all 
wood sounds — baf- 
fling, enticing — the 
booming, long roll 
of the drumming 
grouse never loses 
its appeal. Rarely, 
if ever, is it the 
luck of the hunter 
to come upon this 
wild drummer as 
he peals forth his 
long booming roll, 
but evidence in the 
shape of the drum- 
ming log, bark 
beaten off by the 
sturdy wings, is 
scattered over the 
h i 1 1 s i d e s of our 
northern grouse 
grounds. From boy 
to man — all who 
are familiar with 
the woods and 
fields of New Eng- 
land — stop at that 
challenge. It’s the 
one wild sound 
none can imitate. 
Bess acted as if 
The river flowed along under the bridge carrying the red and yellow leaves 
