CHAPTER VIII 



TUR HUNTING 



We four, indeed, confronted were with four in Russian habit. 



Love's Labour's Lost. 



But what is the sport, Monsieur, that the ladies have lost? 



As You Like It. 



Cecily bagged a black-cock for the pot, and we ate 

 him for lunch, a very elderly bird, as we realized before 

 we sampled his toughness. The native black-cock 

 gives away his age by his colour, and only attains an 

 ebony hue in his third year ; previous to that he is as 

 brown as the hen. We found him up to 8000 feet ; 

 winter sees these birds take to the woods and the 

 rhododendron areas. 



The imperious ringing call of our own black-cock, 

 carrying for miles across the wastes, is not a vocal 

 accomplishment of the Caucasian cousin. Instead he 

 has a feeble, silly little cry, hopeless and uninspiring, 

 and as he sits on a topmost rock, calling, calling on his 

 wives — the Mormon ! — he jumps up and down, stretch- 

 ing his wings in spasmodic shivers. Nor is he so 

 handsome as our home variety, not so glossy or so 

 heavy, and he lacks the showy white feathers beneath 

 the tail. 



All the young cocks had left the society of the hens 



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