"I am so pleased to see you," said Sidney gently. "You have been long away." "Yes," said the man, "yes-and I must journey on again.' "Then," said Sidney, "I wish you pleasant ways, calm seas and safe haven." He clasped both the workman's hands in his. So they parted forever. The one to tread the hard road down to the perishing white bones of a poor man's grave." The other to stray along the golden vistas of ecstatic dreams-till they merged in the dream of death. sum of this woman's torture, augmented by each loathed kindness to which she must submit. With extraordinary resolution she feigned herself dumb in their hands, from the beginning she had crucified this one of the few faculties left hershe did not choose to be questioned, she would not complain. She remembered the dream she had had upon the night of her betrothal, and knew that its curse had come upon her. Lanty sometimes came to her, when she was alone, and told her that he forgave her-that he was sorry for her; he told her again and again, and hoped she understood-but she made no sign They contrived a wheeled chair for her, and when the weather was fine took her abroad into the sunshine, and sometimes on a summer Sunday, when Lanty did no work, he and Mabella would take her to Mullein meadow, because it was a place of sweet memories to them. And as the workman turned away the congregation came forth and gath--though this all but slew her spirit. ered about Sidney; each one in passing the door had turned to give a look of contempt at Vashti where she sat, still and unmoved in her place, and each marvelled at her quietude, but when all the congregation drew from out the church, and yet Vashti did not come, the mothers in Israel went back and found her still sitting there-for she was paralyzed in every limb, though an alert intelligence shone in her great eyes. They gathered about her, and she confronted them still and silent as another Sphinx with her secret unrevealed. The curse of perpetual inaction had fallen upon her impetuous will; her superb body was shackled by stronger gyves than human ingenuity could devise. They told Sidney gently of what had befallen his wife-but as That Other said "Who is my mother?" so Sidney said, "Who is my wife ?" and let his gaze wander to where, high above the housetops, the swallows soared black against the blue. Mabella and Temperance waited tenderly upon Vashti. Whatever her sins were they were terribly expiated through the interminable days and nights she rested there, a living log, imprisoning a spirit fervid as flame, a will as imperious as ever, an intelligence acutely lucid. We shrink from reckoning up the But one grows heartsick at thought of the refined and exquisite tortures this woman endured. Endured unsubdued -for never by one syllable did Vashti break the silence which she had imposed upon her tormented soul. Dole hoped against hope for the restoration of its beloved preacher, but it never came. He was vowed to the worship of nature. At long length another preached in his pulpit, an earnest, commonplace man, wise enough to accept with little question accepted truths, only sensitive enough to feel vaguely that he was an alien to the hearts of his people, but attributing the barrier between them to his great superiority. Dole did not forget its duty to the church, but the congregations there were never so great as those which gathered in the churchyard when Sidney came every now and then to talk to them from beneath the elm trees, telling the wonderful truths about Nature, revealing to them in parable the pathos and possibilities of their own lives, bidding them aspire always, expounding to them the miracles writ in letters of flowers upon the hillside, and spelled in starry symbols against the sky. They brought their children to him even as the women brought their babes to be blessed by the Redeemer, and Sidney taught them with unwearied. patience, and in more than one instance sowed seed which brought forth an hundredfold. He no longer took solitary walks, for one or other of the Dole children was sent with him always, a happy reverent attendant, whose only duty consisted in suggesting that the dreamer turn towards home at noon or nightfall. And so we leave Sidney, rapt in the ecstasy of a happy dream, wherein by clairvoyant vision he saw "good in everything." Nor need we split theological hairs analyzing his claims to mercy. A mortal genius has said: "He prayeth best who loveth best And the Christ forgave a great sinner because she "had loved much." Upon these pleas Sidney's case must rest, if ever he is called before the Grand Jury. As to the wreck of his mortal life, we can but remember the words of an Eastern martyr, spoken long, long ago-"It is better to be a crystal and be broken than to be a tile upon the housetop and remain.' THE END. Joanna E. Wood. SHOOTING THE RUFFED GROUSE. By Reginald Gourlay. THE HE ruffed grouse (Bonasa Umbellus) of North America, is the game bird 66 par excellence for the crack wing-shot to display his prowess upon. He is beyond question the hardest game bird on this continent to kill fairly on the wing. The sportsman who makes a good bag of ruffed grouse as they rise from his dog's points, or from unforeseen flushes, has a perfect right to call himself a "crack shot." His beauty of plumage, great table merits, arrowy swiftness of flight, and-in districts where he has been much hunted-his singular wariness and intelligence, mark him out above all others as a royal bird for the sportsmanlike hunter's pursuit. This wariness and intelligence, by the way, is the result of education, of "accumulated experience" as Herbert Spencer would call it, as regards the danger to all his race from the destroyer man and his uncanny gun and inquisitive dogs. The ruffed grouse of the backwoods, staring down on the hunter with idiotic curiosity from an overhanging hemlock bough, or strutting in front of him along the logger's path, or bush trail, is a very different bird from the grouse of the settled districts, hurling himself into the cover like a mottled streak of lightning at the mere sound of the sportsman's voice if he incautiously speak to his comrade, or encourage his dog. This change from confidence to fear, from indifference to wariness, may be noticed more or less in all wild beasts and birds that are pursued by man. It seems to me a clear proof that wild animals are able to hand down accumulated experience from one generation to another. The range of the ruffed grouse, called "partridge" in the north and west, and "pheasant" in the south, is extensive. To the north he goes as far as the territory of the ptarmigan or willow grouse (Lagopus albus,) a beautiful game bird likewise, and is even found in the southern portions of the latter's country. For instance, the ruffed grouse is found in great numbers north of Lake Abbittibi, almost up to the shores of Hudson's Bay. In the same tract of country, the ptarmigan and the pretty little spruce grouse (D. Canadensis), also a distinctly northern bird, are very plentiful. The ruffed grouse also found in all the great stretch of country from the Atlantic ocean on the east, to the west as far as the timber extends, and comprising most of Canada, all the eastern, and the greater part of the southern and western States. In the extreme south his place is taken by the quail, the game bird "par excellence" of the south. The latter is a charming little bird, and quite an easy bird to miss too, but in my opinion, not to be compared, as regards the skill required to bring him to bay, whether exerted by the sportsman or his dog, with the magnificent game bird that is the subject of this paper. As I hinted before, the grouse is easy enough to shoot (sitting) in the wilder parts of this continent, where he is still in a benighted and unsophisticated state. I shall speak of him, therefore, in the remainder of this paper, as he is in the more settled portions of the States and Canada, where he has, so to speak, enjoyed a liberal education, and accordingly "evoluted" into a bird of conspicuous intelligence and unequalled skill in avoiding the acquaintance of the average sportsman. In these parts, the ruffed grouse is beyond comparison the most difficult bird to bring to bay in North America, without excepting even the wily woodcock, or the (alas!) rapidly vanishing wild turkey. There are several reasons for this. One is the astounding rapidity of his flight, which, even under the most favourable circumstances, renders it quite an easy feat to shoot behind him. Many a grouse, after presenting a fair cross-shot to the hunter, has left some of his tail feathers behind him, without having a single pellet placed in a vital part. Another is his singular promptitude in availing himself of any advantages afforded him by the nature of the ground or cover, when he takes to flight. All other upland game birdswithout exception-tower towards the light on being flushed, and select the most open part of the cover to fly through. The grouse, on the contrary, invariably selects the thickest part of the cover he can find, and goes crashing off through it in a manner marvelous to behold. Even when flushed in open woods, an old cock grouse before he has gone thirty feet will have managed to place the biggest tree in the vicinity between himself and the gunner. He never loses his self-possession under the most trying circumstances. Still another trait of his, that greatly tends to his preservation, is his singular dislike to the human voice. A single loud word to the dog, while drawing on birds, will often flush a whole pack of grouse out of shot. Perhaps this is the reason why in these days, when the fair sex are beginning to display their prowess in the field, I have never heard of a lady shooting a ruffed grouse. The ideal pointer or setter for grouseshooting should be broken to obey the waving of the hand, and not require speaking to at all. On the whole, whoever shoots this bird on the wing, deserves to get him. The ruffed grouse will, probably, as long as cover is left him, survive as a wild game bird longer than any other species in America. Let him only be guarded against the vile and pernicious snare, and he will hold his own against dog and gun for many a generation, especially in mountainous regions. The difficulty of making a good bag of grouse in a mountain country, and the amount of healthy and invigorating exercise the sportsman takes while trying to accomplish this feat, I know well by actual experience. I will here try to give the reader some idea of what the fun is like. You begin by flushing your birds in the heavy timber at the foot of a ridge, say about a thousand or twelve hundred feet high. You flush a good pack of them (there are generally lots of birds in such places), but you somehow don't get a shot just then, and the birds progress merrily on up hill. You know by old experience that they have gone to the very top of the ridge, and you proceed to follow them. This is pretty stiff exercise to begin with, and not very conducive to a steady finger on the trigger. The last hundred feet of the ascent you find necessary to negotiate on your hands and knees. It is about this time that you find it incumbent on you to address your dog. You daren't speak loud for your life; so you exhort him in an intense sibilant whisper "to keep in"!"To heel"! etc., etc. In vain. Just at the steepest part, when you are literally hanging on with your eyelids, you hear a loud whizzing, whirring sound, and are regaled by the sight of the whole pack sailing past you down hill; one big fellow coming so near you that you can actually see him wink. You manage at last to slue yourself partly round, at the imminent risk of pitching down the slope, and fire wildly and unsteadily after the last one. You succeed in shivering the top of a pine tree, about ten feet behind him. Then you stand on the summit and let the fresh air of heaven play about your brow. You want fresh air badly just then, after which you go down after those birds again. Before long you are compelled by circumstances, over which you have no control, to come up once more, and so forth, and so on, da capo. Sometimes, however, as Rider Haggard would say, "a lucky thing happens," which repays you for all your toil. A fine old bird comes tearing past through the tree tops, when you are in a position that enables you to "get well on him." As the smoke drifts off, you "mark with well-contented eye," the feathers stream on the breeze, and see the big fellow hit the ground a hundred yards below you, with a thump that recalls to your mind the immortal saying of the Irish gamekeeper: "Shure it was no use firin' at that bird, sor! The fall would hev' kilt him"! Ruffed grouse shot in this way are honestly earned birds, and this is why true sportsmen prize a good bag of them so greatly. Of course, even in the tolerably settled districts, many a poor grouse is still treed by some barking cur dog, and butchered sitting by the pothunter who owns the dog. I am glad to say, however, that in most places where they are much hunted, the birds, even when numerous, are beginning to know far too much "to tree" under any ordinary circumstances. When they do, they now generally select the very topmost boughs of some giant hemlock or pine, where they are well hidden from below by the foliage. This move of the grouse mostly results in affording our friend the pothunter a good deal more searching than shooting. I ought to explain that by "pothunter" I mean a man who shoots game (generally sitting) in season and out of season, and then sells it at all times to any one mean enough to buy the same. The prohibition in Canada of the sale of upland game at any season of the year, has completely taken the wind out of the sails of this individual as far as that country is concerned, as he shoots simply and solely to sell his game, and not for his own use or amusement. Late one fall evening I met a typical gentleman of this persuasion on his way to a beech ridge to pot some unhappy grouse-or "pa'tridge" as he called them-while "budding," i.e., eating the young buds on the ironwood and beech trees. He was followed by an animal which, in the uncertain light, closely resembled an animated roll of old buffalo robe with the hair worn off in spots. It had a tail on it. "How does your dog work?" said I, by way of being polite. "Fussrate," said he, leaning pensively on his old gun, and regarding the interesting quadruped, who looked back at him. meanwhile with a baleful eye. "He wants some trainin' yet, but he's improvin' a heap. Las' season he swallered pretty much every bird that fell any ways off 'fore I could git thar, but I've pretty near belted the life out ov him fer it, an' this year I can ginerally git a holt on the bird before he hes it quite down." Courteously declining his kind offer to let me accompany himself and the swallerin dog "to see him wurk," I left this skilful dog-trainer and true. sportsman, and departed on my own way. Thoroughly broken dogs are required for hunting the ruffed grousedogs that will obey a signal, and that don't require to be spoken to. pointer or setter who is first-rate on quail, woodcock or prairie chicken, (pinnated grouse), will often flush wild. three out of six ruffed grouse, till he gets used to their keen senses and wary ways. A winged ruffed grouse requires a steady dog to retrieve him, for he A |