Ruffed Grouse

The sun pencil thru the western oriel window moves slowly up the wall and at half-past three winks out. The shadow of Buffalo Mountain reaches across the valley, climbs the white birches, ascends East Mouintain, transforming its snow-clad sides to dusky mauve. The narrowing ribbon of light above glows deep orange, tips the highest summits and disappears.

Expectantly we wait at the north window. Almost on the stroke of five, hurtling forms emerge from the hemlock windbreak, shoot straight toward the house, swerve and alight among the orchard trees for their supper of applebuds.

It is seldom a living form epitomizes so admirably its environment; capable, strong and hardy as the stern hills where it lives, this king of game birds will survive long after its more susceptible brothers have vanished. Only one combination of the elements is fatal; when deep snows become ice-covered while birds are beneath, the feathered creatures perish. Fortunately this catastrophe does not happen frequently. The man with a gun is not their worst enemy. Probably more Grouse take the long trail in the first three weeks of their existence than in the entire following period.

Late March, and the age-old battle between snow and sun is on again; hillsides change from white to gray as the southern sides of rock emerge. Patches of brown appear — last year's carpet of leaves which has not melted into the soil. The boisterous month wanes, snowy areas lessen and at midday the thin steamy snow-fog wraiths gather in depressions. Wavering April comes hesitatingly down the valley and indefinite spots of white saxifrage, like ghosts of tiny snowdrifts, dot the open hill spaces. Then thru the still, warm air comes a sound as of distant blastings; the first booms have a distinct interval between them but gradually the tempo increases to continuous notes which merge into a subdued roar. Br'er Grouse is sending a challenge and invitation abroad from the old hemlock log a few hundred feet west of the house.

By synchronizing each advance with the drumming — for apparently the bird is deaf and blind during the performance — one may approach without much difficulty and the stalking is well worth the effort. Careful, now! He is just behind that bunch of witch-hazel. There he goes again — and we cover the last ten yards to the redoak within forty feet of him.

When you hear the first note of resumption, peek around the trunk. There he is, erect as a mitered bishop; tail wide-spread and flattened on the log for support, ruffs half opened, wings moving with increasing rapidity until at the apex they are merely a blur.

Winter is slipping fast astern. Love is awakening and this "soft half Syrian day" hints that real spring is not far away on the weather bow. The drumming is repeated. Twenty feet away, beneath a half-open frond of ferns, a female walks with hesitating steps; apparently indifferent — like all her sex — she comes into the open, stopping frequently to pick up an imaginary titbit or to throw a dead leaf carelessly over her back. But indifference is a game which two can play, for King David on the log pays no attention to her advent until she is within five feet of his throne. He drums again and in the middle of the rolling notes she jumps upon the log. Does he stop? He does not! The penetrating muted tumult continues to the end while the lady preens a wing . . . . stops while running a primary thru her bill . . . . and looks at him in surprise.

"My goodness! Where did you come from?
This is my boudoir, really. Rather an intrusion on your part!"

They are all touched with the same wand — of dissimulation — bird, animal or human.

Now comes a change in the performance, given few of us to witness and only when Fate is unusually kind. His tail is raised from the log, extended to its fullest; his ruff spread almost in a circle, giving the illusion of a disembodied head. With tail and ruff nearly meeting, wings extended stiffly downward, he turns slowly around, like a manikin on a pedestal. The exhibition of pomp, beauty and pride, generously shown from all angles, is too much! The overawed and subdued lady succumbs.

This imitation of a miniature turkey does not always follow the drumming: in fact I have noted it but twice.

The feathered little Don Juan sometimes is so puft up with pride and excitement that he will strut his stuff before an unconcealed onlooker. Those fortunate enuf to meet one so inclined will never forget the picture of pomposity and self-complacency paraded before his eyes.

The feverish restlessness permeating the world today would disappear if we could emulate the simplicity and straightforward lives of the woods people. In the long flight leading upward the step ahead is marked "consideration." Some have their feet upon it, some have put it behind but far too many are lagging. A backward glance shows such uncounted millions that the heart sinks, hope dims. Will they ever make the grade? Perhaps. We are learning. But a long interval of destruction may intervene.

"Suddenly up thru the forest gloaming
A Partridge rose and that urgent whirring
Startled our breath and checked our roaming:
We stood and were still where the leaves were stirring."