In early May this Grouse mounts a fallen tree, or the rail of an old fence, and swells his breast proudly till the long feathers on each side of his neck rise into a beautiful shining black ruffle or tippet, such as you can see in some old-fashioned portraits of the times when Elizabeth was queen of England.

He droops his wings and spreads his tail to a brown and gray banded fan, which he holds straight up as a Turkey does his when he is strutting and gobbling.

Next he raises his wings and begins to beat the air--slowly at first, and then faster and faster.

'Boom--boom--boom'-- the hollow sound comes rolling with a noise like beating a bass drum.
"Thus does the Ruffed Grouse drum up his mate, as the Woodpecker hammers or the Thrush sings.

You remember the booming sound made by the wings of the Nighthawk, when the air whizzed through them?
When Bob White and his Grouse brother fly, their wings make a whirring noise that is equally startling." "And does his mate understand that the drumming is meant to call her ?" "Yes, surely; and soon there is a nest of dry leaves somewhere about the roots of a tree, or under a fallen log.