1146 
FOREST AND STREAM 
RUFFED GROUSE, STRUTTING. 
(From Life) 
Illustration from “American Game Bird Shooting.” 
FAMILY LIFE OF THE RUFFED GROUSE 
A SEASON'S OBSERVATIONS AND THE 
INTERESTING THINGS THEY REVEALED 
By Charles S. West. 
knows that something unusual has occurred 
to make the mother duck let one of the babies 
take that long drop from limb to water. As 
has been said, the beak of the mother is the 
“go-cart” of the duckling in the transfer from 
nursery to Nature’s school room. After the 
little chaps get into the water, it is just as 
natural for them to paddle as it is for a young 
robin to open his great, red mouth when the 
mother red breast comes with a wriggling worm. 
A bright-eyed boy he was, who solved the 
mystery of the splash. Unbeknown to Crusoe, 
this gimlet-eyed gazer had been watching not 
only the ducks, but the fisherman as well, for 
many minutes. He spoke: “She jest brung ’em 
up outer the hole one at a time, same as a cat 
’ll carry a kitten. She did for sure for I seen 
her\ Then she takes ’em one at a time by the 
wing, easy like, and she drops down to the river. 
The little fellers all stay quiet in a gang where 
she puts ’em. But one little chap, he’s either 
’fraid, or else he’s stubborn, for what does the 
mother do, but jest root him of’en the limb, 
and he comes down by yer cork!” 
Was “Brownie” a Spartan mother? 
The man figured the problem about like this: 
He had come on the scene of the family moving 
at an inopportune time. “Brownie” had landed 
all but one of her brood in safety, but the little 
fellow, seeing the strange form below, had 
balked at the last minute. The mother, divided 
between her duties to the little ones below, and 
fear of the solitary chap above had, in despera¬ 
tion, thrust “Fuzzy” out to chance and had 
dropped silently to “herd” her brood, while the 
last duckling paddled for safety. Bless his dear 
little fuzzy back! Crusoe would not have 
harmed a solitary “fuz”—and, neither would the 
gimlet-eyed boy! 
“Brownie” must have had a very strenuous time 
of it raising that brood. An old moss-backed 
snapping-turtle had to be watched. He just loved 
little ducks. A big-mouthed black bass that 
lurked in the shadow of a root in a deep pool 
was another enemy. Hawks and owls from 
above, and minks and weasels from the banks, 
all had to be guarded against, but mother 
“Brownie” knew their tricks and wiles, and by 
unceasing vigilance protected her offspring from 
all harm. Beautiful, harmless “Peets”; no 
wonder the red Indian took your beautiful 
feathers to ornament the stem of his pipe of 
peace! 
DEER IN NOVA SCOTIA. 
Editor Forest and Stream : 
I read with much interest a letter in your 
July number from a Digby correspondent on 
game conditions in this province, in which 
reference was made to an open season this year 
for deer. I had just been informed by local au¬ 
thorities here (Liscomb Harbour) that they 
were hoping for such an event, as the deer had 
become “real plentiful” in this neighborhood. 
As though in answer to unspoken doubts on my 
part I was given tangible evidence two days ago 
to that state of plenty. Running about among 
the islands between Liscomb and Mary Joseph 
Harbours in a gasoline launch, surrounded by 
the ever present dense fog of this coast, I sud¬ 
denly came on two beauties swimming about 
in the sea, a two-year-old buck and a pretty doe. 
We lassoed them with little difficulty and lifted 
them into the launch and trussed up their four 
legs. It was our first intention to take them to 
Halifax for one of the public parks there, but 
after considering the difficulties entailed, we set 
them free on the beach and they are now, I 
hope, back in their woodland haunts. 
R. J. Fraser. 
T WO generations of pioneer ancestry might 
make anyone peculiarly susceptible to the 
lure of the woods, and perhaps that is why 
the hunting spirit took possession of me when 
I was but a boy. With an old smoothbore rifle 
and the company of a younger brother I was 
supremely happy when wandering through the 
timber on our Michigan farm, climbing over 
brush and stone piles, struggling through deep 
snow, and coming home at night bringing a rab¬ 
bit or perhaps a partridge or a quail. Also in 
this way I gathered a store of vital energy which 
has kept me from disease throughout the long 
succeeding years. 
One winter there was much snow in Michigan, 
and because of continuous cold weather but one 
crust formed and that was near the ground. We 
foitnd that partridges, walking through the deep 
and dry snow, would become so tired that their 
wings would drag beside them, making deeper 
and deeper marks in the snow, until, probably 
almost exhausted, the birds would rise in the 
air and fly for perhaps a hundred feet and then 
drop into the snow and burrow under for a few 
inches in depth and about two feet to one side, 
and there rest and probably sleep. They could 
not have been feeding, for almost everywhere 
the crust beneath the soft snow would have kept 
them from the ground, and there were several 
strong indications that the birds slept. It has 
been said that partridges sometimes spend the 
night in the snow in extreme weather, but I have 
never seen this habit of resting beneath the snow 
in the day time described. That winter I ob¬ 
served it often. 
By following and closely examining a trail we 
could tell when we approached the point of flight 
by the depth of the marks made by the wings, 
and then, by moving cautiously, we could ap¬ 
proach the spot where the bird rested. The di¬ 
rection taken by the partridge after entering the 
snow was always uncertain, but by firing a charge 
of shot into the snow about two feet from the 
point where the bird entered, from a position on 
one knee so that the shot would rake the ground,, 
we stood about one chance in four of hitting the 
bird. If not hit, it would rise with a whir-r-r-r 
that was startling and would be far away long 
before we could recharge our old muzzle-loader. 
This was, of course, pot-hunting of a very virul¬ 
ent type, save for the element of chance which 
entered into the transaction by reason of our 
uncertainty as to the bird’s exact location; but 
we were just boys and did not know. Pot-hunt¬ 
ing is ever the result of ignorance, for selfish¬ 
ness is rooted in ignorance. Unfortunately, it 
is not always the excusable ignorance of the 
small boy. 
Winter passed into spring and there was no 
more hunting but instead much work to do oi» 
the farm. Another winter was in prospect, how¬ 
ever, and the sound of drumming which some¬ 
times came to me from the woods brought 
pleasure with it only because it reminded me of 
hunting days to come. Ignorance again; for that 
sound should remind one of many things: 
“A primrose by the river’s brim, 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more.” 
At that time the sight of a game bird would set 
my blood to surging, and the desire to kill the 
thing was quite beyond my control. I had not 
learned, although I was about to learn, that wild 
things may be the subject of keen interest and 
the source of pleasure entirely aside from the 
enjoyment of hunting them for food. 
One afternoon the long roll of a partridge 
drum in the dark depths of the woods awoke 
