194 BEAUTIFUL BIRDS 
They are like skies where the stars are all moons, 
that float softly among soft brown and amber clouds, 
tipping them all with soft silver. For the Argus 
Pheasant is not one of the very brilliant birds of the 
world. No, he is not brilliant at all. His colours 
are only soft browns and soft ambers and soft, silver 
whites, and yet he is so pretty, so beautiful. I think 
he is as pretty as the peacock, and, when one sees him 
after the peacock, it is a rest for the eye. Some 
people might prefer him to the peacock. Do you 
wonder at that? It is not so very wonderful. There 
may be a little girl reading this, with soft brown hair 
and soft brown eyes, and with nothing golden or 
gleaming about her, and some people, besides her 
father and mother, may think her prettier than the 
little girl who is all golden and gleaming. It is all a 
matter of taste. Some like a broad sheet of water 
dancing in the sunlight, and some like quiet streams 
running under cool, mossy banks, with trees arching 
above them, where the shadows are cool and deep, 
and where even the sun’s peepings are only like 
brighter shadows. People who like that better than 
the other, will like the quiet little girl with the brown 
hair better than the one who gleams and dazzles; and 
they will like the Argus Pheasant better than the 
peacock, and think them both a rest for the eye. It 
is not at all a bad thing to be a rest for the eye. 
