140 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



one's life : watching minute by minute what no white man had ever seen — a pair of Argus 

 Pheasants in their wild home. 



Thus I soliloquized— subconsciously and instantaneously — never taking my eye off 

 the birds. In general I was right, but as to the details of my achievement I was wrong, 

 decidedly so. To my astonishment, instead of beginning to show off, as I hoped would 

 happen, the full-plumaged Argus rushed headlong at the other bird, which pluckily 

 stood waiting the assault. I thought for a moment I was about to see a family quarrel, 

 but an instant later I realized my mistake, and knew that I was witnessing a masculine 

 battle. The first bird was an immature male, not a female. For fully three minutes I 

 could have protruded my head from my cover, and perhaps have applauded, without fear 

 of detection, so engrossed were the combatants in their struggle. Never again shall I 

 doubt the pugnacity of this species. The birds went at one another in dead earnest, and 

 feathers flew to right and left. At first the younger pheasant seemed to have somewhat 

 the best of it, to be more active, less hampered by the fern growth. Then he dashed to 

 one side into the clear arena, and this move was his undoing, for here the long wing and 

 tail-feathers of the elder found nothing to obstruct them and his greater weight and 

 strength told at once. 



These pheasants are wholly without spurs, and if I had ever imagined such an 

 encounter I would have pictured a pecking duel. But there was as much leaping into 

 the air and striking with the legs as if the spurs of a fireback or a peacock were available. 

 Several times when a strike was made it seemed to be the toes and claws which did 

 damage, beating the bird down and giving a momentary chance to peck — and these 

 pecks were backed with the full weight of the pheasant. Not only were they direct 

 blows, but whenever possible the bare skin of the head or neck was seized, and then the 

 Argus held on with bull-dog tenacity, wrenching and twisting viciously. I could 

 appreciate the power of the neck muscles, which enabled the bird to uproot strong plants 

 and clear its dancing-ground, when I witnessed the vigour of this attack. I saw blood 

 flow freely more than once, and finally, without any sign of preliminary weakening, the 

 younger bird turned and fled, the victor at his heels, pecking at his tail as being the only 

 part within reach. 



Not until both birds had disappeared did I realize that there had been other excited 

 onlookers of the struggle besides myself, although my mind unthinkingly observed them 

 all along. Two gaudy broadbills had fluttered and hopped about close over the com- 

 batants, seeming with their hoarse calls to be urging the opponents to greater efl'orts, 

 while once a white-faced bulbul swooped down in great excitement close to the 

 pheasants, and then retired to a branch extending over the clearing, where he sang 

 continuously, his sweet notes seeming strangely out of tune with the emotion which 

 inspired them. Thus passed one of the most exciting half-hours I have ever spent. 

 When the birds vanished, I crept out at once, left my covering, descended and made my 

 way as quickly as possible along my back trail and to camp. As I figured it out, the 

 young bird had probably been in the vicinity before we came, and its lack of caution, 

 returning so soon after the men had gone, together with the total disregard of possible 

 danger on the part of the old male, was explained by the fervour of their hatred of one 

 another, a rivalry which brooked no delay in settlement. 



So we learn that not only does the voice of the Argus summon a mate, but it shows 



