The mother circles around, quite near, with alarm and
distress until I back away and watch. Then she comes forward, softly
clucking, and soon gathers her chickens under her wings.
Similar behavior has the ruffed grouse which you may still find
occasionally in the deeper woods. Stepping over the fallen tree you
send the little yellow-brown babies scattering, like fluffy golf-balls
rolling for cover. Invariably the old bird utters a cry of pain and
distress, puts her head down low and skulks off through the grass and
ferns while the chicks hasten to hide themselves. Your natural
inclination is to follow the mother, and then she will take very short
flights, alternated with runs in the grass, until she has led you far
from her family. Then a whirr of strong wings and she is gone back to
the cover where she clucks them together. But if you first turn your
attention to the chicks the mother will turn on her trail, stretch out
her long, broad, banded tail into a beautiful fan, ruffle up the
feathers on either side of her neck and come straight towards you.
Often she will stretch her neck and hiss at you like a barn-yard
goose. There is a picture of the ruffed grouse worth while. You will
learn more about the ruffed grouse in an experience like this than you
can find in forty books.
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