THE CAPERCAILZIE 
In the depth of the pine-wood 
All weathers live we, 
Making meals of the green buds 
That sprout from each tree. 
And so dark are the shadows 
The pine-branches wear, 
That few passers notice 
Our residence there. 
But the folk who would spy us 
Come prowling around. 
Taking pains to descry us 
In nests on the ground. 
Oh, it’s bad for our chances > 
Of life on that day. 
If we shun not the glances 
Of men such as they ! 
Hardly any bird has greater cause to be proud 
of his father than has the young Capercailzie. 
Perhaps he hopes that he, too, may some day 
grow into just such another, and deserve the name 
of the finest game-bird in Great Britain. His sisters, 
however, must be content to be a smaller bird, with 
a plainish coat of feathers, while he looks forward to 
growing to quite a tremendous size, weighing from 
ten to fifteen pounds, and having a shining blackish 
coat, and a breast of lustrous green. Over his eyes 
