FOREST AND STREAM 
r>»»7 
Grouse Hunting in the Berkshires 
The Good Old New England Country That for Many Years Yielded Sport in Abundance—A Well Told 
Story of a Hunt in which Two Tyros Played a Part 
By Lucien C. DeHart. 
HILE the quail holds the very 
just reputation of being the 
game bird of America, there are 
few forms of more exhilarating 
sport to the wing shot than try¬ 
ing conclusions with the ruffed 
grouse. It is quite true that the 
grouse offers a larger target to 
the sportsman; the covers from which they usu¬ 
ally flush, the roar that startles the ear of the 
hunter—well calculated to upset any but a steady 
risk alone. We left the train at the little town 
of Huntington, carted for four miles by a 
very lazy horse, and put up at a farm house for 
the night. At daylight an early breakfast was 
had, and the attractive cover was “struck before 
sunrise.” I had seen a good many birds in pre¬ 
vious years, on the extreme eastern hill boundary 
of the Connecticut Valley, but the flushes that f 
witnessed on that bright autumn morning, in the 
majestic Berkshires just about laid over any¬ 
thing 1 had ever seen or heard of. The small 
nerve—will more than offset the advantage of 
size. It has been maintained that if the grouse 
flushed in open cover, as often as do the quail, 
there would not be many bad scores by a good 
wing shot. The fact, however, that the grouse 
usually chooses very shrewdly its hiding place, 
and not infrequently manages to get a fair-sized 
tree between himself and the gun, would prove 
again the great, universal law of compensation. 
One of the very attractive features about the 
advent into New England, as a place of residence 
—some seventeen years since—was the early ac¬ 
quaintance with ruffed grouse shooting. A short 
run west, over the Boston and Albany railroad 
on an early train, will carry one to one of the 
most attractive hill countries in America, espe¬ 
cially in mid October, just when the mountain 
foliage is aglow in every conceivable hue. The 
first trip to grouse cover in the hills was made 
with two unpracticed tyros, with gun and dog. 
A report had been given by one of the tyros that 
the birds were so thick up there that a dog would 
be unnecessary. As I felt just a little uncertain 
about the safety’ of a valuable dog with such 
sports—or even myself for that matter—I con¬ 
cluded to leave the dog at home and to stand the 
coveys seemed to be spread out in every direction 
on the hillsides, and the coveys were numerous. 
A very amusing thing about my tyro compan¬ 
ions was that they seemed to become rattled 
almost from the first flush, and instead of getting 
in their gun play when the birds began to break 
cover, they almost invariably would hold their 
fire and shout to me—“There goes one Ithere goes 
another!” It was indeed an unique bird hunt, and 
upon seeing that I was to have little or no com¬ 
petition, though much amusement, I tried to hold 
the nerve down, pick the shots—and managed to 
score a very good bag. 
On one occasion a big cock grouse flushed from 
a pile of boulders, swung around to my left and 
sailed away for a very pretty shot, as I followed the 
target, and was just about to touch the trigger, 
providentially’ I saw' one of the tyros squarely in 
line with my aim. If the charge of number eight 
shot had gone on its mission, I might have bagged 
the bird, but I am dead certain that the other fel¬ 
low’s face would have been badly’ marred by my 
charge. After recovering from an excited moment 
over what might have happened ,1 suggested to the 
tyros that unless they were willing to hunt in 
line 1 was prepared to quit and not make another 
shot. 
Bor their part in the hunt, the city tyros were 
having so much fun "marking” the birds to me, 
they did not care a rap about shooting. The 
real difficulty was, I thought, they did not think 
of shooting until afterwards, even though they 
both seemed to enjoy the excitement. One of 
my tyro grouse hunting companions—in relat¬ 
ing the incident of that well remembered hunt, 
recently declared to another fellow that I had 
bagged ten birds without a miss. “Why, man, 
whenever I shouted ‘there goes one,’ he would 
swing around and kill the bird just as easy as 
eating pie,” I laughed and reminded the tyro 
of what an exciting outing that grouse hunt had 
been for him. but that I was afraid he had for¬ 
gotten how to score. From that occasion and 
several others, I have thought that the hunt¬ 
ing excitement, with the desire for the contest, 
was a natural instinct in most healthy, active 
men, for apparently those two chaps enjoyed 
the hunt as much as I did, though I thought at 
the time what a fooli h outing it was. Two 
active young men chasing, flushing grouse around 
the sides of the mountain all morning for the 
pleasure of seeing them fly. then shouting to an¬ 
other fellow to shoot them. But after all there 
is no accounting for taste. It was not my taste 
to go grouse shooting with such a reckless pair 
again. 
With due appreciation to the tyros for show¬ 
ing me the good grouse cover, I ventured forth 
on subsequent occasions with only one other 
companion and he knew the game. The setter, 
with an excellent nose for grouse, and a steady 
nerve for hard work and for holding down a 
With the Grouse in the Berkshires—The Point. 
