his good hiding. For a few moments they are motionless; then the
grouse skulks and glides to a better cover. As the strong scent
fades from Don's nose, he breaks his point and follows. The
grouse hears him and again hides by drawing himself up against a
stump, where he is invisible; again Don stiffens into his point,
one foot lifted, nose and tail in a straight line, as if he were
frozen and could not move.

So it goes on, now gliding through the coverts, now still as a
stone, till the grouse discovers that so long as he is still the
dog seems paralyzed, unable to move or feel. Then he draws
himself up, braced against a root or a tree boll; and there they
stand, within twenty feet of each other, never stirring, never
winking, till the dog falls from exhaustion at the strain, or
breaks it by leaping forward, or till the hunter's step on the
leaves fills the grouse with a new terror that sends him rushing
away through the October woods to deeper solitudes.

Once, at noon, I saw Old Ben, a famous dog, draw to a perfect
point. Just ahead, in a tangle of brown brakes, I could see the
head and neck of a grouse watching the dog keenly. Old Ben's
master, to test the splendid training of his dog, proposed lunch
on the spot. We withdrew a little space and ate deliberately,
watching the bird and the dog with an interest that grew keener
and keener as the meal progressed, while Old Ben stood like a
rock, and the grouse's eye shone steadily out of the tangle of
brakes. Nor did either move so much as an eyelid while we ate,
and Ben's master smoked his pipe with quiet confidence. At last,
after a full hour, he whacked his pipe on his boot heel and rose
to reach for his gun. That meant death for the grouse; but I owed