THE REED-PHEASANT 59 



frequently found old nests with eggs woven into their 

 bottoms cellared, as it were, and such happens with the 

 great-crested grebe. The fenmen who gather the nestlings 

 mow a circle round the nest before the eggs are hatched 

 off, and net the place with an old piece of herring lint ; for 

 the birds seldom build over water, though they dearly love 

 a hover that rises and falls with the tide, and perhaps 

 that may account for their long nests. And when the 

 hatchlings are a week old the bird-catchers drop into the 

 reed-jungle and make a dash for the nest. The young 

 birds tumble out like mice and make for the ground, and 

 the fenmen catch them in the mowed space before they 

 have time to reach the protecting reed-brakes, and after- 

 wards they are reared by hand and kept as cage- birds, and 

 they are wonderfully fast-growing birds. Indeed, the eggs 

 are hatched in eight days and the young can fly in a fort- 

 night. Should you not have patience to loaf about the reed- 

 beds, however, and wish to discover a nest in a lightly 

 cropped marish swamp, take a long light pole in your hand 

 and start into the swamp, being all eyes (looking ahead) and 

 ears, listening for the ching, cJiing. March along, looking 

 well ahead and beating the stuff, and you will be sure to put 

 them up, if there be any birds in your sparse jungle. And 

 then be careful you do not crush the eggs or nestlings with 

 your heavily-booted feet. And be sure you choose a still, 

 bright day for your work, or never a reed-pheasant will you 

 see. And you may find their nests as late as July. And be 

 sure, also, that the cock-bird, who often begins to sit on two 

 eggs, will be sure to betray the nest if you let him. Espe- 

 cially is he over-anxious and fussy about the first eggs; 

 indeed, his behaviour must be a thorn in the side of his 

 plain mate. In winter the reed-pheasants gather together 

 in flocks, each numbering fifteen or twenty, and you may see 

 them rise from the reed on a bright winter's day, chinging, 

 flying up some yards into the blue, and suddenly throwing 

 themselves down headlong into the yellow reed-bed to feast 



