never found huddled together so the pot-hunter can “smother” them as he does the Quail. Still two 
and sometimes three birds are close enough to receive parts of the same charge. In 1855 the writer 
was out after Wild Turkeys, in company with IT. Clay Smith, of Cleveland, Ohio. It was a warm, still, 
bright day in October. Late in the afternoon we were moving slowly through the woods and thick 
undergrowth, within gunshot distance of each other, and to ascertain the location of my friend, I made 
a halt, and while listening for his movements, my attention was directed to an object resembling the 
head of a bird projecting above a large grape-vine, which lay upon the ground, about thirty yards 
distant, directly across the channel of a natural ditch. The ground was then dry, but the water after 
rains had washed leaves and left them lodged against the vine on the side on which I stood, showing an 
offset upon the opposite side, or wash-out from the water-fall over this little artificial dam. The longer 
I looked at it the more certainly it resembled the head of a Ruffed Grouse. To give satisfaction and to 
end up a day’s hunt, I took deliberate aim at the object as if a bird was concealed behind the baricade, 
and fired. A Ruffed Grouse immediately went off from the spot, running, tumbling, and trying to fly, 
with one wing fractured. My little spaniel was near at hand and gave chase, but the bushes and briars 
were so very thick that the active little fellow did not, with all the assistance I could render, capture 
the bird until it got off, and that surprisingly quick, more than two hundred yards. Fatigued 
and warm I sat down on a log, and was examining the beautiful plumage of the Grouse, when my friend 
came up. I related the circumstances, and said the place was not examined after the shot was fired, and 
it was possible another bird might have been present and shared the charge. The proposition to walk 
back that way Mr. Smith would not entertain, laying he considered it in the wrong direction for one 
already fatigued. The matter was compromised by his agreement to remain until I returned. To my 
surprise, when within seeing distance, the light belly of a bird was visible on the ground near the little 
wash-out. It was lying on its back dead; and in great haste it was picked up, and with feelings elated 
I returned to my friend, who at once boastingiy offered to bet a handsome consideration that the egg- 
bag performance could not be played upon him any farther. The writer replied it was an easy matter 
to go back again to the same place and get another bird if it was necessary to do so. After much con- 
troversy and boasting and counter boasting, I started back rather reluctantly, but not without hope, as 
I had omitted to look into the little wash-out, the very place I should have expected to find the game 
after the shot was fired. Sure enough, there was another bird in a sitting posture, with outstretched neck, 
and spread wings, in the bottom of the cavity under the grape-vine, “dead as a mackerel." The third 
bird was produced, winning the bet, which was, with all obligations growing out of the transaction fully 
and most satisfactorily canceled the next day at the dinner table. 
Many pleasant occurrences connected with the pursuit of this bird might be selected from the folio 
of a lifetime. It is a sport full of memorable incidents, and when once enjoyed can never be lost from among 
the sunny associations of the past. Photographs of ragged mountains — rocky ravines — shady dells — run- 
ning brooks — -quiet streams — forests rich and ripe with every shade of color and tint of autumn — quiet 
secluded places, where nature reveals her sweetest charms — and scenery which in inimitable splendor 
mocks the artist’s pencil and poet’s pen, are indelibly fixed in the mind of the sportsman as the home 
and haunts of this most beautiful bird. 
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