MALAY OCELLATED PHEASANT 107 



to be without that penetrating quality which carries the tones of the common argus 

 through fern and bamboo, over ravines and jungle slopes, to such great distances. It 

 is more harmonious, less blatant. I have heard one of the small woodpeckers of the 

 Pahang jungles utter a sound, while much weaker, yet in timbre exactly similar in 

 character to this call of the great black argus. 



Disregarding the rumours of tigers and leopards, I crept through the jungle more 

 than once in the dead of night, the damp mist rising thickly from the reeking ground 

 about me, and the white trunks of unknown jungle trees looming up like ghosts. 

 I made my course by compass and broken lianas, and laid it by the occasional wild 

 scream of the bird. Once only I seemed to be approaching. Nearer and nearer 

 sounded the call, appearing almost as if the bird was walking toward me. Then my 

 electric searchlight showed an impenetrable tangle of rotan and thorn palms — a maze of 

 myriad recurved hooks. Even in bright daylight one might not pass through this 

 without carefully cutting a trail, so after listening for a half-hour I turned back. 



While I waited, crouched at the foot of a clump of mighty bamboos, my light shut 

 off, I realized as never before the mystery of a tropical jungle at night. A quarter of a 

 mile away the magnificent bird was calling at intervals, in just some such place as I 

 was in. 



When my eyes recovered from the glare of the light, I found that the jungle was 

 far from dark. The night was moonless and not a glimmer of star came through the 

 thick foliage overhead. But a thousand shapes of twig and leaf shone dimly with the 

 steady, dull, blue-green, phosphorus glow of fox-fire. Once a firefly passed through 

 the bamboos — a mere shooting star amid all these terrestrial constellations. The mould 

 beneath my feet might turn to peat, or in future ages to coal, but even then the alchemy 

 of fire would be needed to awaken the imprisoned light. Here, from plants, still erect, 

 which were blossoming a short month ago, a thousand gleams shone forth, defying the 

 blackness of night. 



Some small animal passed to windward of me, sniffed and fled at full speed. The 

 wings of a bat or other flying creature whistled near, while ever the resonant call of the 

 Rheinarte rang out, mocking my helplessness. The firefly could make its way through 

 tangle and thorns, to the very spot where the bird stood. The small four-footed creature 

 of the night could creep noiselessly over dried bamboo sheaths until his little eyes 

 marked the swelling throat of the calling pheasant. But here was I with a powerful 

 electric light, with the most penetrating of night glasses, with knowledge of savage 

 woodlore, and human reasoning power, and yet with feet shod with noise, with clothing 

 to catch on every thorn — a hollow mockery of a " lord of creation" ! Again the bird 

 called and I interpreted its message — the law of compensation. I was helpless to reach 

 it, I was degenerate indeed in the activities of the primitive jungle folk, but I thrilled at 

 the mysteries of the nocturnal life — my pulse leaped at the wild call — not from a carni- 

 vore's desire for food or a beastly lust for killing, but because of the human-born thirst 

 for knowledge ; of the delights of the imagination which are for man alone. 



Although denied a glimpse of the bird itself, I was fortunate enough later to come 

 upon its handiwork. Near the summit of a low rise in open bamboo jungle the dog of 

 my hunter led me to a small cleared space which I knew for the dancing arena of a 

 pheasant. The animal began scratching close by, and investigation showed a few 



