i8o A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



it down on the spot was Err-er-drk — er I Err-er-drk — er 1 The accent was all on 

 the third note, while the fourth was sometimes very weak, and at a distance would have 

 been inaudible. It seemed more like an involuntary intake, or recovery of breath, than 

 an actual integral part of the call. 



This bird was unquestionably challenging. Every motion, every attitude attested 

 this, and on another occasion I observed the same thing. 



But at another time in the terai I had the good fortune to watch and listen to 

 a bird which was crowing and yet not challenging. I knew he had a mate near by 

 with a nest, although I did not actually locate it until a day or two later. The Jungle 

 cock was on a fallen log, and his whole demeanour was of assured peace. He was alert, 

 but only as any wild bird is whose life is one long fight against danger. His crowing 

 was intermittent, uttered at a lower pitch, and did not have the tang and abruptness 

 of the challenge. It had a hint of the domestic drawl, and between each effort he sang 

 to himself the low, content song with which we are so familiar in the barnyard hen — 

 JVMadMddk — wddk — wdMMddk ! The whole seemed to me a real sono-, to be 

 compared with the tempered notes of a thrush who perches near his mate on her nest 

 and gives this vent to joy in the success of his life. 



The difference in the apparent human phrasing of birds' songs when heard near 

 by and at a distance is very apparent in the case of the Junglefowl. In Garhwal I have 

 more than once mistaken the Kok ! kok ! koklass ! of the koklass pheasant for the 

 Junglefowl and vice versa, when the notes were softened and mellowed by filtering 

 through the mist of a long length of valley. Others also have noticed this 

 resemblance. 



More commonly heard than the Err-er-drk I is a less wild, less distinctive call, 

 that which I take to be influenced by some domestic strain, although uttered by birds 

 which, in habits, are as truly feral as any bird of the jungle. When heard near at hand, 

 this sounds to our ear like Cak-ka-chdrr ! or Cock-ka-charr — ca ! This bears a fair 

 comparison to the crow of some breeds of bantams, and an additional interesting fact 

 is that the domestic birds whose crow most closely resembles that of the wild Jungle- 

 fowl are those whose plumage is nearest the red and black of their feral ancestors. 

 Even the crow of the wild birds quoted above is always, however, distinct, being shorter, 

 more viril and wholly lacking the final drawl which seems to hint of the degeneration 

 of the domestic cock. 



The cackling of the wild hen, as I have already said, is given in moments of excited 

 suspicion. I do not know whether the direct stimulation of having deposited an tgg 

 also inspires this note or not. I have never heard it in a captive wild-caught bird, but 

 several times I have known the first generation of captive-bred birds to give voice to 

 it. I am inclined to believe that it is a call to the cock, giving notice that the nest 

 duties of his mate are for the moment over. I have known a peahen to leave her nest 

 with a half-running, half-flying rush, and to call loudly until her mate came, when they 

 went off quietly feeding together. 



The squawk of a wild bird when picked from a trap or a wounded one when caught 

 in the hand is indistinguishable from the note of terror of the domestic fowl, but it is 

 never continued for minute after minute as in the latter, but uttered once or twice, and 

 then the bird awaits its fate in silence. The cackle of the wild hen is sharp and shrill, 



