PHOTOGRAVURE 5 



BREEDING HAUNTS OF THE SATYR TRAGOPAN 



When the Tragopan makes its nest it leaves the more open forested slopes and descends some steep, 

 cool ravine. Here the bamboo grows on either hand in ranks so dense that a man cannot force his way 

 through. The heart of the ravine is clear, the rushing torrents in early spring having swept every growth 

 away save moss and rock-clinging patches of grass. Here a trickle of icy water tinkles its way downward 

 to the river far below, and within sound of its drops the Satyr hen lays her eggs. They are well hidden, 

 in the heart of the friendly bamboo and rhododendron scrub. The silicious stems rise in serried rows in 

 all directions, presenting a sheaf of spear-tips to the soaring eagle, and the crackling of the dried fallen 

 leaves reveals the approach of every marauder. Only occasional Tibetans straggle along the distant trails 

 and the dull-hued hen sits safely and finally leads forth her brood for their first drink in the depths of the 

 rocky ravine. 



