20 THE CHINA OR DENNY PHEASANT IN OREGON 
reserve, calling up the best there is in him. No longer he stands in the open. The hunter 
with his dog enters one side of a field, he slips quietly out the other. The setter, threading 
the stubble in hot scent, points; but before his master has taken a dozen steps forward, 
the bird slips into a dead furrow and runs with the swiftness and stealth of a cat, while 
the dog is momentarily baffled. On and on they go, and when at last he comes to point, 
and holds, the hunter is to see a remarkable sight. Suddenly there arches into air, with 
spasmodic cry, and wonderful swiftness and power, the most brilliant and thrilling object 
in all the field of upland sport. For the fraction of a moment he poises in the air; only 
to get his bearings, then away!—gradually rising for a hundred yards or more, with 
intermittent cry and vibrating ribbon-like tail, to drop again into a sinking, soaring flight, 
far over the meadows. Strong men follow this elusive game, and when the law’s limit 
for the day (10 birds) has been reached, both man and dog are ready to rest. 
His home life is peaceful, as quiet as are the colors of his mate. 
One late-spring morning a boy went fishing up one of the little streams beside our 
town. In quest of bait he strolled into a near-by pasture for “hoppers.”” A few yards 
inland he suddenly stopped short and whistled a low, long-drawn note. 
“An old China’s nest,”’ he breathed, and after standing a moment shrugging his 
shoulders in childish admiration, tiptoed away. That night he told me of his find. 
