As we turn out of the sheltered barnyard through the bars and up the farm lane, the keen wind flings at us, and our numb fingers recoil from the metal of our guns and take a careful grip on the wood. At once we fall to discussing the vital question-- Where will the birds be to-day? For the partridges, as the New Englander calls our ruffed grouse, are very fastidious about where they spend their days. Sometimes they are all in the swamps, sometimes they are among the white birches of the hillsides, sometimes in the big woods, sometimes on the half-wooded rock ledges, sometimes among the scrub growth of lately cut timberland, and sometimes, in very cold weather, on the dry knolls where the cedars huddle--the warm little brooding cedars that give the birds shelter as a hen does her chicks. When I first began to hunt with Jonathan, he knew so much more than I in these matters that I always accepted his judgment. If he said, "To-day they will be in the swamps," I responded, "To the swamps let us go." But after a time I came to have opinions of my own, and then the era of discussion set in. "To-day," begins Jonathan judicially, "the wind is north, and the birds will be on the south slopes close to the swamp bottoms to keep warm." "Now, Jonathan, you know I don't a bit believe in going by the wind. The partridges don't mind wind, their feathers shed it. What they care about is the sun, and to-day the sun is hot,--at least," with a shiver, "it would be if we had feathers on instead of canvas. _I_ believe we shall find them in the big woods." I usually advocate the big woods, because I like them best for a tramp. Jonathan, too well content at the prospect of a day's hunt to mind contradiction, says genially, "All right; I'll go wherever you say." Which always reduces me to terms at once. Above all things, I dislike to make myself answerable for the success or failure of the day. I prefer irresponsible criticism beforehand--and afterwards. So I say hastily, "Oh, no, no! Of course you know a great deal more than I do. We'll go wherever you think best." "Well, perhaps it _is_ too warm for the swamps to-day. Now, they might be in the birches." "Oh, dear! _Don't_ let's go to the birches! The birds can't be there. They never are." "I thought we were going to go where I thought best." "Yes--but only not to the birches. It's all a private myth of yours about their being there." "Is it a private myth of mine that you shot those two woodcock in the birches of the upper farm last year? And how about that big gray partridge--" "Well--of course--that was later in the season. I suppose the birds do eat birch buds when everything else gives out." And so I criticize, having agreed not to. But it's good for Jonathan; it makes him careful. "Well, shall it be the swamp?" "No; if you really _think_ they're in the birches, we'll go there. Besides, the swamp seems a little--chilly--to begin with. Wait till I've seen a bird. Then I shan't mind so."