156 A GAMEKEEPER'S NOTE-BOOK 



they feel out of sorts, and have no desire to be seen 

 for they have to pass through the strain of the 

 moulting season. 



As the last acre of the cornfield is cut, a hundred 

 young pheasants rise, with self-important splutterings, 

 before the binders, each bird clearly betraying its 

 sex by the growing feathers of maturity. But the 

 cunning old cocks seldom advertise their presence. 

 They slink stealthily out of the field while the machines 

 are making their first rounds, and in a couple of yards 

 from the corn reach the shelter of the hedge. They 

 steal away with lowered heads, as though to hide 

 their faces behind each blade of stubble. A dissipated, 

 dishevelled old ruffian the cock pheasant appears 

 while moulting with half a tail, many flight feathers 

 missing from the wings (corresponding feathers drop 

 out together from each wing, so that he is not de- 

 prived of power of flight), and lacking all the metallic 

 gloss of plumage, burnished gold and bronze. To 

 come suddenly on a moulting cock pheasant as 

 when he is enjoying a quiet dust-bath is to pity 

 him. And the way he blunders off suggests that he is 

 heartily ashamed of himself. 



In May the turtle-doves were skimming low across the 

 fields, after their arrival in this country. During the 

 last week of August we saw them gathering into little 

 parties of dozens or scores against the hour of their 

 departure. The doves leave before the end of 



