COMMON KOKLASS PHEASANT 9 



Halley's comet was drawn across the sky like a second Milky Way. At the apex the 

 head glowed with a dull, pale green glare. It was the comet more than the stars which 

 etched into the blackness of night, and when my eyes slowly readjusted themselves, 

 brought many silhouetted details into view. 



For a while no sound came to me from the night world all about, not a breath of 

 air stirred the branches below me, and I watched the comet with an abstracted fascina- 

 tion which was almost hypnotic. Here was I in the twentieth century, gazing on this 

 splendour of the heavens— a solitary scientist in the heart of this great wilderness of 

 tumbled mountains. There came vividly to mind the changes which had taken place in 

 the affairs of men on the globe since last its splendid train swept past our earth. This 

 Asiatic continent was then all but unknown — as indeed its heart is at present — Africa 

 was but a mystery ; Japan a mere hermit nation of Mongolian islanders ; Italy and 

 Germany were not then kingdom and empire ; the flag of Mexico flew over Texas and 

 California; not a mile of railroad had been built in Europe; the telegraph and the 

 "Origin of Species" were unheard of. Then my momentary dream passed, for an 

 insistent call, a mysterious metallic double-note, came to my ear from the deodars, the 

 low note or call of some creature — whether bird or batrachian I know not — which never 

 ceased during this and other following nights, becoming an unnoticed background of 

 soft insistent sound, from dusk until dawn. 



I rose abruptly, and padded softly down into the forest of deodars and silver firs, 

 the mighty columns rising from the steep slope out of a dense carpet of needles. The 

 overhead foliage was scanty where I seated myself, and the branches and trunks stood 

 out dimly in the diluted comet- and starlight. 



Fifteen minutes elapsed and the eternal, mournful, four-toned call of the hawk 

 cuckoo came from a distance. It was now four o'clock in the morning. I was startled 

 by a sudden rush of some creature up the trunk of a tree close by. It ascended by 

 starts, each movement sending down a rain of twigs and bark almost upon me. Then 

 another animal climbed after it, this one steadily and more slowly. Their silhouettes 

 against the sky enabled me to see that both had long tails. I watched silently. The 

 second creature gained on the first and, suddenly, a dark form hurtled through the air 

 towards me. It swooped between my head and the nearest tree, a claw brushing my 

 cap as it went past. It crashed into a low shrub and clambered nimbly to the top. The 

 second animal ran down the trunk a short distance, and also leaped or fell with even a 

 harder crash on the other side of where I sat, tense with excitement. It ran to my very feet, 

 when I flashed the electric light full upon it, and with a snarl it drew back, showing the 

 sinuous body and flashing, cruel teeth of a pine marten. It slunk off into the blackness 

 behind, but not before other actors had made their presence known. A third animal 

 ran along a branch overhead and awakened pandemonium in the shape of a pair of 

 Koklass Pheasants, which blundered off through the trees, squawking at the top of 

 their lungs. Reaching the end of the branch, the great flying squirrel, for such it was, 

 sprang into the air. In the dim night light its widespread parachute looked as large as 

 a blanket, and I involuntarily dodged as, with a resounding thump, it struck the tree 

 nearest flying squirrel number one. Then it called — a sudden, sharp, loud squawl, 

 ending with a clear metallic note, repeated again and again. The other squirrel answered 

 with an infantile whine, and I read the whole story — the almost tragedy which had been 



VOL. HI c 



