Mr. Grouse moved back and forth upon his log in the clearing in the woods. And casting a withering glance at Turkey Proudfoot, he said, "It's plain that you don't know what a game bird is. Men—and boys, too—come into the woods with guns to hunt us. And we make game of them by rising swiftly with a loud whir and flying off before they have time to shoot us."
Turkey Proudfoot gaped at Mr. Grouse.
"Don't they ever hit you?" he faltered.
"They've never shot me," said Mr. Grouse. "Once a hunter knocked out one [p. 81]of my tail feathers. But that was only an accident."
"I shouldn't care to be a game bird," Turkey Proudfoot remarked. "I'm sure it's much safer living at the farmyard."
Mr. Grouse gave him an odd look. One winter when food was scarce in the woods he had flown down to the farmyard. And he remembered seeing turkey feathers scattered about the chopping block near the woodpile.
"How do you usually spend the holidays?" he asked.