SCINTILLATING COPPER PHEASANT 163 



feathery expanse of bamboo, graduated from green at the base to pale brown at the 

 tips. A few hundred yards farther on rose a dense, black mat of cryptomeria and pines. 



In the heart of the preserve I found myself in a curious landscape. A multitude 

 of little rolling knolls, all thickly wooded or covered with brush, isolated by a flat 

 grassy plain, much of which had been broken down by the tramping of soldiers and 

 the hoofs of horses. From first one direction, then another, there came the broken 

 crow of pheasants from these knolls. 



I searched one knoll carefully but found nothing of interest. A second turned out 

 to be a kind of outjutting bit of forest connected with a reedy marsh of considerable 

 extent. A high wind had suddenly arisen, and the rustle of leaves masked any noise 

 of my advance. I crept from tree to tree and at last reached the edge on the 

 marsh side. I peered behind the last pine and was astonished to see just beneath my 

 face a nestful of eggs. There were five pale-creamy shells, well sunk in a setting 

 of dead leaves. I did not wait for a second glance, but retreated at once and circled 

 around to the left until I was at right angles. Here I found three cryptomerias 

 growing close together, the great trunks forming an admirable shield, and here 

 I mounted my field battery of binoculars and awaited developments. 



At the edge of the marsh was an extensive rookery, and the sudden gale of wind 

 was playing havoc with the great stick nests. The day before, rain had fallen 

 in torrents, and now this wind, howling through the tree-tops, was the last of the storm. 

 Far, far away through the clean washed air I could see the majestic summit of Fuji, 

 standing out like shining new porcelain against the deep blue of the sky. The rooks 

 hung croaking in mid-air watching the dissolution of their homes, sticks mingled with 

 broken eggs hurtling down among the reeds. 



An hour passed and the gale died down as quickly as it had arisen, the swaying 

 trunks and whipping branches coming to rest and the rooks betaking themselves 

 elsewhere. Titmice swung upside down before me, or clung to the mossy trunks, 

 spying me out, but taking me philosophically, not screaming "thief" to all the world, 

 as the well-named babblers of India would have done. 



Behind me is a thin growth of spindling bamboo, four to eight feet in height, with 

 cryptomerias, pines and maples. The debris on the ground is chiefly of dead, 

 blanched, linear bamboo leaves and a maze of pine needles, with a scattering of 

 roundish cones. Flowers are a few violets, a bluish spike of minute flowerets and 

 a yellow clover-like blossom. 



A black-and-white-headed bunting sings near by, flirting its white outer 

 tail-feathers, and a dove coos sonorously among the pine branches overhead. Snakes 

 in numbers come out into the spots of warm sunlight and coil in contentment on the 

 dry leaves, dark brown in colour, much like the leaves, but with conspicuous shining 

 black markings on the neck. 



In my interest I have forgotten the nest for a few moments, and when I again 

 glance through the glasses the eggs are gone. At least that is my first impression, 

 and restraining my inclination to leap up and search for the marauder, I look again and 

 resolve the body of the sitting bird. A beautiful picture of the forest debris she makes, 

 a marbling of grey and rufous and black, and my naked eye absolutely refuses at 

 this distance to separate her from her surroundings. 



