LADY AMHERST PHEASANT 27 



ray of sunlight. The orchids and trailing moss which cast long, wavering shadows on 

 the foam beneath are made to give up their sheltered insects by many small tits and 

 babblers. 



On the damp earth at the edge of the torrent is writ the passing of many nocturnal 

 creatures ; a sambur deer came to drink last night and returned to the jungle by another 

 passage through the great split boulders ; a cat of some small species crouched close to a 

 side rivulet — and we can re-picture her very attitude as she daintily lapped up the icy 

 drops — her shoulders high above her back ; tail-tip upturned ; yellow eyes gazing keenly 

 through the chill blackness of the night, A few steps up the bank is a pile of fresh 

 feathers — a thrush which may have been the victim of this same feline. Around all is 

 woven a lesser tracery of weasels and martens, and the still finer lacery of the four-pointed 

 star prints of birds. 



But these latter are not nocturnal and are the most interesting of the actors in this 

 haunt of the Lady Amherst Pheasant. As we sit half hidden by the brightest of green 

 bamboo sprouts, a chubby little bird dashes to a boulder on the opposite shore and 

 vigorously wags its tail up and down. When it darts again into the air after an insect, 

 its tail shows as a wide rufous fan, otherwise it is a sombre slaty blue. It is chased 

 away by a pair of white-capped redstarts, with more rufous and less slate and caps of 

 snow. Clean-cut and alert as wrens, every movement is a delight as they wag and bow 

 and flirt their long tails, alighting now on a partly submerged stone with the water 

 trickling over their feet, now on a dry boulder to snatch an unfortunate dragon-fly larvae, 

 emerging from his watery life to sudden aerial death. 



But the master of the torrent now appears in the distance and we forget all else : 

 a sturdy rail-like bird, larger than a thrush, short, upturned tail, eyes like stars, long 

 trim legs and toes. From beak to tail it appears of a general dark chocolate hue — no 

 touch of brightness to flaunt its approach. But we know from its actions that it is indeed 

 the master sprite of these icy streams. No mere wagging of the upturned tail, but a 

 graceful elastic dipping of the whole body — a flexing of the legs, half-open flirt of wings 

 and tail — what could ever catch this steel spring in feathers off its guard ? 



From boulder to boulder it flits with rapidly beating wings, nearer and nearer ; it 

 plunges its whole head beneath the white curl of water and is up upon the top of the 

 boulder again like an electric spark. 



Suddenly we gasp to see the dipper dart down into the centre of a seething turmoil 

 and vanish. Ten, fifteen seconds pass and several feet farther down we see a struggling 

 form emerge : a drowning animal, a wounded bird — no, a living dipper, fighting against 

 the current with all the strength of its short, strong wings. It reaches the mossy surface 

 of a log, and stands dipping as before, as dry as the butterfly passing over its head. 

 Again it dives, and again and a dozen times, in this very spot. How we long to see it 

 at work, but the boiling, foaming waters are as opaque as the rock itself. The water is 

 so cold that one's hand curls up as if from an electric shock, and yet this splendid bird 

 of these wild mountains minds it no more than do we the shadow after sunshine. 



Day after day we searched and watched for the pheasant which we knew must haunt 

 these streams. A tell-tale feather had revealed the presence of the Lady Amherst, but it 

 seemed as if the bird would never show itself to our eyes. But fate was kind, and far up 

 the ravine, beyond the last glimpse of the huts of the wild Kachins, we came upon a 



