I90 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



Amid such a wild amphitheatre of hills in early spring I wait, watching, not 

 knowing that I am about to have my first glimpse of Elliot's pheasants. I am 

 sprawled flat upon the curving seat of an ancient grave, with an outlook which takes in 

 two great sweeping valleys and a ribbon of river winding between. The outjutting 

 ridge of the grave site rises five hundred feet above the muddy river. The stream 

 zigzags off between the hills, making three twists before it is lost to view. 



The sky is free of visible clouds, but the sunlight is filtered through an intangible 

 mist, which weakens the shadows. The pale green of the lace-like brakes covers the 

 hillside, with here and there a dash of white — the flowers of some unknown vine. A 

 single patch of rose brightens the shrubs near me — a brave azalea bush, which has 

 opened its many score of delicate nasturtium-like blossoms. Hundreds of other plants 

 of this species dot the mountain, but as yet show only the hint of rose pink at the seams 

 of their buds. The pines — all saplings, the oldest claiming hardly a dozen years — are 

 candelabra of blossoms, each twig tipped by its panicle of a myriad pollen cups, so 

 overflowing that the least breath sends uncountable grains aflight, while a shake fills 

 the surrounding air with a yellow cloud. 



The distant phrase of a dyal bird comes clear and sweet from the valley behind. 



The warmth has just begun to summon to life the hosts of the coming spring and 

 summer, but dangers on every side already menace the lesser folk of the underworld. 

 Spiders crawl about on the lichened granite close to my face in search of their first 

 victim ; tiny droseras or sundews dot the moist places, their diminutive rosettes 

 sprinkled thickly with the poisoned dew of death. One of the first butterflies shows a 

 deep gouge in a hinder wing where some creature has snapped at it. The first 

 mosquitoes and black flies are as eager for my blood as though it were full summer. 



But a spirit of fun is not absent. Two cock pheasants are calling to one another 

 with sharp, shrill challenge from opposite shoulders of a tall mountain. To me they are 

 invisible, but a kite soaring slowly past apparently has them both in his eye. He can 

 do them no harm. He knows it and they know it. Nevertheless as the challenge rises 

 from one knoll he swoops close down as if with deadly intent and silences the bird. 

 Then he swings around and across the hanging valley, and with a scream and swift rush 

 brushes the bamboo tops above the second bird. So little fear have the pheasants that 

 the first bird begins its call a moment after the kite has passed, and again the sheep in 

 wolfs clothing silences the bird. Never once is his onslaught unsuccessful as far as 

 putting an end to the call. The century-old fear of a bird of prey is too deep to be 

 altogether eliminated, although the pheasant well knows this pretender to be a mere 

 scavenger — a low caste gleaner of dead fish and refuse. 



The pitiful apologies for trees — the stripling pines scantily dotting the slopes — 

 impress one as little more than weeds, and their flower-topped twigs at this season 

 detract still more from their arboreal appearance. We are so used to looking upward 

 at this inflorescence that it seems some strange bloom, wholly new to us on these dwarf 

 growths. But the pines which had sprouted along the summits of the ridges, even 

 though but a few years old, have already attuned their scanty tufts of needles to the 

 winds, and give forth a true piney roar — as of distant surf. 



One has a feeling in this region unlike that experienced elsewhere. In our own 

 north country the spruces and pines whisper of the moose, the panther, the bear, through 



