October, 1919 
FOREST AND STREAM 
523 
Bess made two or three quick jumps and froze, pointing into the grape vine 
it was a challenge directed at her. She 
sat up, pointing her nose in the direc- 
tion of the sound, sniffing as if to get 
just one faint taint of the feathered 
drummer. And I, no less enthused, made 
her keep in, while we waited for just 
one more drum-beat that might locate 
the bird more exactly. It came — the 
boom boom — boom — about half way 
up the hillside and directly opposite 
where we stood on the bridge. Not 
often, if ever, does the following up 
of a drumming grouse repay the ef- 
fort; many times I had tried it only to 
hear the wily old cock slip away be- 
yond gunshot, but, as I was not over keen 
to hunt a route that led us further 
from home, I gave Bess the word to 
“Hie on!” The wise old dog headed off 
into the wind, directly toward the sound 
until we struck an old wood road which 
led in the direction we were to follow. 
Bess was carefully nosing out the 
stony side hill just above the road, and 
I, standing balanced on a big boulder, 
was watching, feeling that we were 
about at the drummer’s last stand — 
when she whirled and froze into as tense 
a point as a dog often makes on these 
birds; and then, almost from under her 
nose, a big grouse jumped up on a fallen 
log and hurled himself like a cannon ball 
directly at my head. Swinging to shoot 
— well, when Bess came up I was just 
picking myself up, recovering my gun 
and rubbing a barked elbow, for it was 
certainly a tumble, a high and lofty fall. 
Yet clear in my eye was the picture of 
that old cock as he jumped up on the 
log before his flight, and clear in my eye 
was the vision of a half-white wing. The 
day was too far gone for us to follow 
his flight down the hill, so I limped home, 
resolving that on the morrow I’d try the 
wise old bird again. 
Twice during that season Bess and I 
found and flushed the old rascal, but 
never a shot, and so the season closed 
and summer came. One day, while we 
were walking in the old orchard back 
of the house, the white winged drummer 
strutted out from under a fallen log, 
spreading his ruff and tail almost in old 
Bess’ face and was promptly charged and 
chased for his impertinence. 
Again, we found a nest of eggs up by 
the big rock near the spring, and knew 
that the hatching resulted in a flne brood 
of husky ruff-necks. In early September 
when they took flight, squealing off in 
every direction when Bess found them 
in the rank growth of ferns in the deep 
woods, I could have sworn I got a flash 
of a white wing, and I believe our drum- 
mer was the daddy of the flock. 
T he season opened again. Bess and 
I took to the covers and hills of 
our old stamping ground, spending 
glorious days afield with varying success; 
woodcock in the birches and partridge in 
the swales and alder runs of the foot- 
hills. But I saw no sign of our old drum- 
mer and yet I knew at times that Bess 
was sniffing the air hoping for the taint 
of his brown feathers. I believe she 
hunted his old drumming grounds more 
keenly than she did other covers and her 
disappointment showed clearly when we 
turned from where she hoped to find him. 
One day as we hit the highway, both 
of us satisfied to take the short road 
home, she at my heels, a partridge flicked 
along through the brush, crossed the road 
almost in front of us, lit on the rail of 
the chestnut fence, and hopped off on the 
other side, down under a tangled grape 
vine on the down slope of the rocky 
pasture lot. The sun, just sinking be- 
hind the hills, played its golden light on 
the bird as it stood on the rail for an 
instant, and again the white winged 
drummer held the stage. Bess made two 
or three quick jumps and froze, pointing 
into the grape vine, but that old rascal 
clipped away without a sound — never 
raised above the pasture brush, and once 
again got away without my firing a shot. 
Bess turned those big brown eyes up at 
me with a most disgusted look and the 
road home was one long wish for “what 
might have been,” if we had only planned 
otherwise. 
Another day Bess found the old drum- 
mer. I knew she had him — she fairly 
quivered in every hair — but this time a 
quick turn in the thick cover saved him 
and I shot off a good sized birch tree as 
I swung to lead his flight. I ruefully 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 561 ) 
One day, as we were walking in the orchard, the white-winged drummer strutted out 
