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Ruffed Grouse — Part 2
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Quite ignored by her lover when maternal duties approach, the female scratches a slight hollow in some secluded place, usually at the foot of an old stump or log or rock, often near a stream among the underbrush; but many nests in unprotected open stretches are recorded. A few wisps of dry grass, dead leaves, pine needles, or any convenient material, line the hollow in which a full set of eggs--from ten to fifteen rich buff, dotted with different sized spots of pale chestnut brown-has been found as early as April first, a full month earlier than the regular time. Since the markings can be easily rubbed off a fresh laid egg, one sometimes hears that the grouse's egg is plain buff. Only one brood is raised in a season, the exceptions to the rule being very rare. For nearly four weeks the hen closely confines herself, and, like the sitting Bob White, relies upon her plumage's perfect mimicry of her surroundings to protect her from notice. The coloring of a ruffed grouse tells of a long ancestry passed under deciduous trees. Seated among last year's leaves she looks all of a piece with the carpeting of the woods, and neither stirs a feather nor winks an eye, though you stand within two feet of her, to lead you to think otherwise. Mr. D. G. Elliot, among others, believes she hides her nest from the male as well as from all her other enemies. The fox, weasel, squirrel, hawk, owl, and above all the breech-loader, are the grouse's deadliest foes; and a species of woodtick that inserts its triangular head beneath the skin, sometimes destroying entire broods. Bird lice, and a botworm that resembles a maggot and penetrates the flesh, likewise prove fatal, particularly to chicks. The dust baths commonly indulged in are taken to rid themselves of vermin. Heavy rains that drench the fledgelings not infrequently kill them, too, until one wonders there are any ruffed grouse left. The precocious, downy brown balls, that run at once from the shell, are managed precisely as a domestic hen cares for her brood, even to the clucking, hen-like call that summons then beneath her wings, where they sleep until old enough to roost in trees like adults. The mother grouse when suddenly startled gives a shrill squeal, apparently the signal for the covey to scatter and hide among the leaves and tangle, while, by feigning lameness and other hackneyed devices for diverting an intruder's attention from the chicks to herself, she remains in their neighborhood, they motionless in their hiding places, until the reassuring cluck calls the happy family together again. When the young need no further care in autumn, the males selfishly join the covey, rarely consisting of more than six or eight birds; for, unlike the pinnated grouse, this species does not pack.
"The ruffed grouse, by reason of its sudden bursts from cover, its bold, strong, swift flight, the rugged nature of its favorite cover, its proud, erect carriage, its handsome garb and its wide distribution is easily the king of American game birds," says Mr. G. O. Shields, "and has therefore been chosen as the emblem of the League of American Sportsmen."
In the brisk, golden days of autumn the sportsman finds sport indeed in hunting the wily, clever grouse, "educated" by much persecution from an almost tame denizen of the mountain farm into a woodland recluse that constantly challenges admiration for its cunning. It will seldom lie well to a dog, but sneaks away so swiftly through the underbrush that either the dog or its master usually gets left. By flying low, then dropping to run again, the strong scent is broken.