i86 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



still held aloft their ghosts of seed-cups, and low, broad, prostrate leaves spread their 

 variegated surfaces to catch what warmth they might. 



Higher and higher we climbed, until the air held a tang even in the full sunlight. 

 A clump of frosted, crumpled-leaved willows hugged the open reaches of the ravine 

 streams ; ferns — green near the ground — showed their brown frond tips curled again, 

 but this time irregularly, in the burning agony of the first deadly frost. 



The few jack-in-the-pulpit blooms which still stood bravely a thousand feet below, 

 were here replaced by great cob-like ears of golden-orange kernels which lay prone 

 against the bare earth of rain-washed banks, a blatant invitation to all passing 

 pheasants. It was curious to see how many of these plants, growing inconspicuously 

 amid the ferns and begonias on the sides of the ravines, when their fruit had ripened 

 and hung limp on the wasted stems, invariably drooped down over the edge of the 

 earthen bank, against which they shone as a brilliant splash of colour. 



The familiar shape of grape leaves caught our eye, and we found the vines in 

 abundance creeping over the ground. 



Then came the change to ten-foot bamboos, growing as closely together as the 

 stems would stand. A dip into a steep narrow ravine would again bring into view 

 mossy trees and ferns. Willows bordered the damp places, and on the higher bits of 

 level ground low plants, with beautiful wine-red leaves, abounded, and masses of tall 

 everlasting — true to their name if picked at once, otherwise dissolving into filmy seed- 

 heads. Banks of small-leaved strawberries covered the ground in some places. 



The last few zigzags of the trail ushered in the forests of rhododendrons, replacing 

 the oaks and chestnuts and receiving their legacy of moss drapery. The slopes above 

 and around us now showed the rounded, close-foliaged tops of these trees, each rosette 

 of leaves encircling the furry, close-wrapped buds of next year. 



Then we reached the summit of the pass and found a half mile of level winding 

 trail, leading between rounded low hills, all covered with scrub bamboo and willow. 

 The bamboo was stiff, large of stem and small of leaf, and rising not more than two 

 feet above the ground. Here, even in the sunshine of midday, the rushing winds 

 brought a bitter blast of cold. Dwarf plants, each with a pea-like blossom of brightest 

 blue, snuggled close to the ground, and here and there rounded boulders bunched 

 themselves amid the low bamboo stalks. The rocks were of rose or whitest quartz, 

 painted with spreading plots of emerald-blue lichen, and a wonderful pattern etched by 

 the stinging blasts of winter. In the centre of the pass meandered a bog, unfathom- 

 able, which in some strange fashion drew moisture from lofty peaks many miles away, 

 and in turn fed the rushing waters which foamed through every ravine. The ranks 

 of reeds which filled the bog were linked one to another by a glistening sheen of ice— 

 a nightly forecast of the bitter winter storms, soon to fill all this gorge with snow. 



Scattered among the bamboo fields were the dead lily stems so familiar to us in 

 the Himalayan sky fields, although these were empty— both of seeds and earwig tenants. 



Clinging to the low stems or flitting from one stunted willow bush to another 

 were cheery little tits—those marvels in feathers, which laugh at height or temperature. 

 These were exquisite little atoms — finger lengths of fluff with chestnut caps and 

 waistcoats. 



High overhead soared, and at times screamed, a great eagle, black as night, with 



