A “ruffled” rouse 
     
    
   
   
    
     BY TERRY POWER 
     
    
   
   
    
     "On the other foot" (the proverbial shoe that is) may have been my 
     
     second choice for the title of this account. To begin with, and Walt 
     
     Disney agrees with me on this - it's tough to be a bird. True, the sole 
     
     human induced infliction for some birds is merely to become the subject 
     
     of an interested observer. Others, however, fall victim to being caged, 
     
     shot at, fresh frozen, Kentucky Fried or have their kind immortalized 
     
     by means of a synthetic likeness known as a lawn ornament. 
     
    

    
     It is ironic, then, that it was the innocent — the 
     
     watcher in this case, and not the hunter or the Colonel, 
     
     who should be chosen to give up (or wear, depending on how 
     
     you look at it) that aforementioned shoe. I'll get to the 
     
     point. 
     
    

    
     Somewhere in the woods between Lewes and Bellview 
     
     (part of my Breeding Bird Atlas square) I was plodding 
     
     along a woods road. It was June 15, a warm, sunny Sunday 
     
     among the hardwoods. I had come to the point when I looked 
     
     only at those birds which insisted on being seen. Suddenly 
     
     I was confronted by one which qualified. 
     
    

    
     About twenty feet to my left (I can't recall which 
     
     faculty first alerted me to the danger), a very ruffled 
     
     grouse had emerged from the herbs and was rapidly closing 
     
     the distance - on foot. As the agressee, or so I thought, 
     
     my first instinct was of self-preservation - run like hell. 
     
    

    
     A stronger instinct (curiosity) prevailed, however, and I 
     
     stayed around for the showdown. 
     
    

    
     Stepping backwards with my adversary in full View, I 
     
     managed to keep the distance between us fairly constant at 
     
     about ten feet. I backed off about twenty yards with the , 
     
     grouse in hot pursuit but moving in a zig zag pattern, hiss- 
     
     ing menacingly with head low, feather erect and wings un~ 
     
     folded (elapsed time: 10 seconds). 
     
    

    
     Abruptly, she turned into the woods away from her suspected brood, 
     
     feigning a broken wing and crying like a hurt puppy. I refused to follow, 
     
     at which point she stopped to monitor my progress. Moving up the trail 
     
     some ten yards past the danger point, I slipped behind some bushes to set 
     
     up surveillance. She found me out, clucking defiance. 
     
    

    
     Not to be outwitted, I moved off another fifteen yards and continued 
     
     my vigil, hoping for a glimpse of ruffed grouse chicks. Only a few min- 
     
     utes later, mama grouse crossed the trail at the same point where I had 
     
     first seen her and disappeared. I waited patiently but in vain for her 
     
     to bring her brood into sight. Moving closer yielded only the muffled 
     
     thumping of a grouse taking flight. I continued on up the trail. 
     
    

    
     Now the moral of the story? You can't always count your chicks even 
     
     after they hatch. At least not in the woods near Lewes. 
     
    
   
   
    
     (Editor's note: The Southern Kings Wildlife Federation recently an— 
     
     nounced the winners of the Harvey Moore Scholarship and Terry Power was 
     
     one of the three chosen. Congratulations!)