694 
FOREST AND STREAM 
December, 1918 
ONE WAY TO FIND THE SPICE "OF LIFE 
A FEW HOURS HUNT ON 'AN .OBLIGING FARMER’S LAND WILLI,YIELD ALL THE V 
VARIETY ONE MAY WISH FOR, BUT THE FARMER’S WISHES MUST BE RESPECTED 
V ARIETY, they tell us, is the spice of 
life. If this is true, then a little 
hunt that I took must have been a 
“spicy” one, for I returned with as varied 
a collection of game as anyone ought to 
dare get during a three hours’ hunt here 
in the effete East. 
I am famous around the house for not 
neglecting my meals, and when the meal 
consists of roast ruffed grouse with lots 
of fixings such as Jimmie—my one best 
bet—can prepare, nothing other than the 
woods could make me hustle the grub. 
At the rate that brings on indigestion, I 
finished the dinner—-we still have dinner 
at twelve—and was lacing up my leggings, 
when Jimmie asked: 
“Where are you going this afternoon?” 
“Plain Hill,” I told her. “I can get 
there in short order, and I know just where 
a bird or two is hanging out.” 
“Well,” she cautioned, “be careful of 
yourself and—bring home a ruffed grouse.” 
“They are mighty scarce birds this sea¬ 
son,” I rejoined, “but we’ll try to get one 
to take the place of the fellow we had to¬ 
day for dinner. Gee, whizz! if black bass 
only tasted as good as ruffed grouse do.” 
I shoved the cleaning rod through the 
barrels of my sixteen gauge hammerless. 
It slid easily through the cylinder right, 
but I had to give it a twist to force the 
rag through the choke in the left. 
I shoved the stock and barrels into the 
carrying-case and grabbing my belt with 
its twenty-five shells of drams, I ounce 
No. 8 shot, as well as a full box for ex¬ 
tras—I hate to think of running short of 
ammunition—I flew out of the house and 
jumped into the little red runabout. 
It is about five miles to the top of Plain 
Hill, but you wouldn’t have believed it if 
you had been with me. My, how I did 
kick up the dust, and bounce over the 
rocks and ruts and “thank-you-marms,” 
but I was excusable. I was going hunting 
—I was just crazy to get into the thickets 
and become all wound up with bull briers 
and vines. That’s the moment, too, when 
a big fat grouse scatters the dry rustling 
leaves and bounces into the air with a 
roar. You don’t shoot either. No. To 
tell the truth, with a brier across the muz¬ 
zle of your gun and another across both 
arms and your chest, you are not quick on 
the trigger. 
That is what I wanted. I wanted to get 
into the woods—get into the brush—briers 
—mud. To hear- the “b-r-r!” of wings— 
to smell the burnt smokeless powder. Yes 
—all of that. 
I N a very few minutes after my arrival 
at the farm on the hill, I was going 
, toward a clump of blueberry bushes. I 
had two shells in the little sixteen gauge 
and my desires were something on this 
order: first I hoped I’d start something, 
then that I’d get a decent shot at it, and 
By GEORGE S. BROWN 
finally that I’d make a hit. And making 
a hit with a wily old ruffed grouse beating 
it full tilt, is about as difficult as it is mak¬ 
ing a hit with the ladies sometimes. 
As I was bending low and forcing my 
way through the brush, I heard the whirr 
of a grouse not far ahead. Knowing the 
ground pretty well, I felt quite certain 
where she would alight—in a narrow run, 
bordered by an almost impenetrable tangle 
Here are the samples but no orders filled 
of briers. I hurried along to this place 
and was nearly on my hands and knees in 
my efforts to get through the thicket, when 
the old grouse crashed out of the briers 
not thirty feet ahead of me. 
I yanked the sixteen gauge into a shoot¬ 
ing position and cut loose with the right. 
It was a case of shoot mighty quick or not 
shoot at all. After I shot, if the bird had 
kept right on, I wouldn’t have been sur¬ 
prised as misses are much more common 
than hits in such shooting; but my aim 
was good and the bird upset. 
I picked it up, smoothed its feathers, 
and admired its rich black and brown 
plumage. Then I tucked it away in my 
hunting coat and pushed on through the 
brush into the young growth. 
Down ahead of me there was a couple 
of acres of young saplings which had 
sprung from the stumps of the chestnut 
trees that ones grew there but now were 
supporting telegraph wires or railroad 
tracks. I passed through this young 
growth without starting anything, and 
struck the edge of the woods where the 
tall trees were still uncut. I stopped a 
moment in one of the unlikeliest spots im¬ 
aginable for ruffed grouse.- There were 
two good places ahead of me: one, along 
the course of a small brook; the other, a 
clump of white birches. The birches 
looked a bit “woodcocky” too. 
While contemplated in which direction 
to go first, right back of me there was a 
“whirr!” 
I wheeled just in time to get a glimpse 
of a ruffed grouse disappearing behind a 
tree trunk. He stayed “disappeared” too, 
until he was a good forty yards away, and 
then I caught a flash of brown as he 
dodged to one side. 
I pulled the left barrel on the fleeing 
bird, but without avail, then lost sight of 
the game. Right after him I went, but be¬ 
fore I had proceeded a hundred feet, I 
heard a “Co-ee!” from up in an open pas¬ 
ture. I answered, and the young fellow 
who lived on the farm came over to do a 
little hunting with me. 
B EFORE I proceed any further with 
this hunt, I would like to diverge a 
bit. It is about a matter that concerns 
all of us fellows who go to the open with 
guns. 
There are lots of complaints registered 
about the unwillingness of farmers to per¬ 
mit hunting on their land. There is a lot 
of posted land in Connecticut and there is 
other land that is not posted, but hunters 
keep off for their own good. I live in the 
city, and they call me a “city chap.’; but 
after considering all the evidence—both 
from what I have heard and seen—if it 
were necessary for me to stand with the 
farmers or “city chaps," I’d line up with 
the farmers’ For the farmers are pretty 
decent fellows when they are dealing with 
those who in their turn try to be likewise. 
For examples, let me relate a few instances 
of farmers’ “meanness.” 
There was a farmer who owned a strip 
of brush land and woods that was full of 
gray squirrels and a number of grouse. 
Whenever he heard a gun fired on his land, 
he took after the hunter and the hunter 
got off. I hunted the farm adjacent to 
this man’s land and knowing how he felt, 
I kept where I belonged. 
One autumn there was a bunch of 
grouse that stayed in a ravine close to the 
line fence, and every time I went after 
them, they took to the forbidden ground 
and were safe. 
I drove into this farmer’s yard and went 
out into the field where he was and stated 
my errand: that I would like to hunt on 
his farm. 
“You are the first man who ever asked 
me if he could hunt before he trespassed 
on me,” he said. “I’ve got some young 
stock in that pasture and don’t want them 
shot. If you will be careful, I have no ob¬ 
jections to your hunting there.” 
A dozen cigars—I found out beforehand 
that he smoked—left him in a pleasant 
frame of mind. At Christmas, a box of 
