AUTUMN IN NORWAY. 
183 
writing the above, I am still unable to place him in the 
first rank of game-birds—reluctant as I am to do even 
unwitting injustice to a truly noble species. 
The “ quality ” of any game must depend on the 
degree of sport it offers to skilled and systematic hunt¬ 
ing. But with the caper in the endless Scandinavian 
forest, no system whatever is available or possible. A 
wild bird amidst dense trees, he is altogether too scarce 
to be worth following, and “ driving ” is here out of the 
question. In winter the case is different—he then offers 
a fine mark for the rifle—but in autumn (bar mere 
flukes and lucky chances) the only way I see to kill 
him is the haphazard and unsatisfactory one of chancing 
charges of mould shot through perhaps seventy yards 
of intervening branches. And, even at that, in all the 
years I hunted those forests, I do not think I could 
ever have had six shots in a day—often only one or 
two. That is not sport, nor worth the trouble of trying. 
Hence I refuse to include the capercaillie as a game¬ 
bird of any real value in Norway. 
There is the native method of shooting the caper¬ 
caillie (and all the other forest-game) that should not 
be omitted, though it is not sport. Most of these birds, 
on being sprung by a ranging dog (and not suspecting 
human presence), will “tree” hard by. The dog is 
trained to bark beneath, thereby monopolizing the atten¬ 
tion of the game till the gunner has time to come up. 
A pot-shot then results. We have not ourselves been 
wholly above adopting this plan when shifting camp in 
the backwoods, and meat was scarce. The game being 
often most plentiful along the roadsides, we sometimes 
secured several brace, besides beguiling the weary hours 
