GAME BIRDS OF AMERICA
Ruffed Grouse (Bonasa umbella)
ONE
The drumming of a ruffed grouse is like the sound of a rattlesnake: only those who have heard it know what it is like. It seems to come from any part of the thicket or woods, like the voice of a ventriloquist. Sometimes it resembles distant thunder or the rumble of wheels. Early in spring the male steps cautiously out on a log, first making sure that no fox or weasel is hiding near. His rich chestnut hue, with purple or bronze on the ruffs, and white-barred tail, harmonizes beautifully with the shadows of the surrounding spruce thicket. Then he rises on tiptoe, and with wings held out a little way from the body begins his thump, thump, thump—faster and faster until it dies away in a mere rumbling. Hunters at one time supposed that this sound was made by the wings striking against the log or stump; but it is now known to be produced by rapid vibration of the quill feathers. Usually there are hen grouse nearby who sneak up through the leaves to watch his performance. He takes them all if he can find them, for the grouse cock prefers a harem; and they go about in a flock together. Day after day the drummer returns to his favorite log, until the warm weather comes on.
Sportsmen often speak of shooting pheasants, when in reality they mean grouse; for there are no native pheasants in the United States, the nearest approach being, strangely enough, our wild turkey. Often the ruffed grouse is spoken of as a partridge—and where that is so Bob White is called a quail.
Still plentiful in spite of many thousand guns aimed at its life, the grouse ranges over the whole of northern North America, making short migrations in search of food or winter quarters. Sometimes when wintering in tall timber it eats great quantities of laurel buds; which, gunners say, makes the flesh highly poisonous for food. The survival of this game bird in such great numbers is due in a large measure to the whir of its flight, which serves a double purpose, startling the gunner and warning all other birds in the neighborhood. Some sportsmen never become accustomed to the sound; but are always unnerved and powerless to shoot the bird that makes it. One gunner, after having stood paralyzed before each grouse as it started up near him and whirred away out of range, roused himself with a desperate effort, and as the next thundered away brought the gun to his shoulder, shouting “Bang!” at the top of his lungs, while the grouse sped on unharmed.
PREPARED BY THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
ILLUSTRATION FOR THE MENTOR, VOL. 1, No. 34, SERIAL No. 34
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION, INC.
BOB WHITE