her nest, unless he happens to blunder directly into it. [Illustration: Dr. C. K. Hodge, Photo. GROUSE, SHOWING RUFF AND TAIL] * * * * * “During the fall the Grouse keep together in small flocks. Sometimes a dozen birds may be found around some favourite grape-vine or apple tree, but they are usually so harried and scattered by gunners that toward winter the old birds may sometimes be found alone. “As winter approaches, this hardy bird puts on its ‘snow-shoes,’ which consist of a fringe of horny processes or pectinations that grow out along each toe, and help to distribute the weight of the bird over a larger surface, and so allow it to walk over snows into which a bird not so provided would sink deeply. Its digestion must resemble that of the famous Ostrich, as broken twigs and dry leaves are ground up in its mill. It is a hard winter that will starve the Grouse. A pair spent many winter nights in a little cave in the rocky walls of an old quarry. Sumacs grew there and many rank weeds. The birds lived well on sumac berries, weed seeds, and buds. “Sometimes, but perhaps rarely, these birds are imprisoned under the snow by the icy crust which forms in cold weather following a rain, but usually they are vigorous enough to find a way out, somewhere. The Grouse is perfectly at home beneath the snow; it will dive into it to escape a Hawk, and can move rapidly about beneath the surface and burst out again in rapid flight at some unexpected place. “The Ruffed Grouse is a bird of the woodland, and though useful in the woods, it sometimes does some injury in the orchard, by removing too many buds from a single tree. In winter and early spring, when other food is buried by the snow, and hard to obtain, the Grouse lives largely on the buds and green twigs of trees; but, as spring advances, insects form a considerable part of the food. The young feed very largely on insects, including many very destructive species.” —E. H. Forbush, in _Useful Birds and Their Protection_. THE RUFFED GROUSE When the pallid sun has vanished Under Osceola’s ledges, When the lengthening shadows mingle In a sombre sea of twilight, From the hemlocks in the hollow Swift emerging comes the Partridge; Not a sound betrays her starting, Not a sound betrays her lighting In the birches by the wayside, In her favoured place for budding. When the twilight turns to darkness, When the fox’s bark is sounding, From her buds the Partridge hastens, Seeks the soft snow by the hazels, Burrows in its sheltering masses, Burrows where no Owl can find her. —Frank Bolles.