xxxii INTRODUCTION 



column are usually observed in pairs or trios, while one's dominant memory of the 

 eight genera listed as gregarious is of birds in flocks. It is interesting to note that 

 the more jungle-loving, tropical pheasants, including all the members of two sub- 

 families, are essentially solitary. This is due, perhaps, to the multiplicity of terrestrial 

 enemies and the difficulty which a flock of birds would have in escaping any sudden 

 onslaught in the dense undergrowth. 



VOICE 



Pheasants have been generously endowed in the matter of voice, and, indeed, in 

 their life economy the sense of hearing is second in importance only to that of sight. 

 The gamut in feeling is great ; that of latitude no less. The loud crow of chanticleer 

 has gathered strength under the protection of mankind, and follows daylight around the 

 earth wherever mankind has made a home. The nocturnal challenge of the Ocellated 

 Argus has been heard by perhaps a scant half dozen white men, and only on a few 

 isolated bukits of the Malayan range. Mingled with the roar of the avalanches which 

 crash down from the Himalayan glaciers, we may hear the seep! seep! of the Blood 

 Partridge and the louder call of the Impeyan. In the warm wind blowing from the 

 sea off the Javan coast comes the regular boom of breakers and the high, broken crow of 

 the Green Junglefowl. 



To the sportsman or field naturalist in search of creatures other than pheasants, the 

 chief vocal memory of these birds must always be the shrill cackle of terror which so 

 often accompanies sudden alarm and headlong flight. Using still-hunting and tent 

 observation as my methods of study, I was able to enter more intimately into the life of 

 these birds and listen to their more composed small-talk. The varied utterances of the 

 barnyard fowl are well known, and, with the exception of the more solitary inclined 

 species of wild pheasants, I feel certain that all have an equally varied vocabulary. 

 Whether watching the birds from my umbrella tent or an ambush among the branches, 

 or observing those in pheasant aviaries, this correlation between natural social instincts 

 and volubility invariably holds good. A pen full of Peacock Pheasants is usually 

 silent ; a flock of Silvers keeps up a running comment audible many yards away. So 

 deeply implanted is this trait that these latter birds talk to themselves when quite 

 alone. In a cage I have seen a Kaleege contentedly murmuring to himself by the 

 hour, and in some isolated patch of jungle I have watched one of the same group 

 scratching vigorously for his own delectation, and unintermittently voicing his pleasure 

 or impatience at the results. 



In the life-histories of the various species I have entered into details which I shall 

 not repeat here. Briefly, we may recognize several general divisions of utterances. 

 First in importance is the crow of the cock, which may be both a challenge to rivals 

 and a call to females within earshot. Then there is the alarm note, often uttered by 

 both sexes — by a cock to his harem, or by a hen to her brood. With modifications this 

 may serve to express a considerable variety of emotions ; when less vigorous it may 

 indicate suspicion, and when agonizingly increased becomes the scream or cackle of 

 terror. As the vocal antithesis of this we have in many of the social species the content 

 note, which is given under many conditions, but only when the birds feel quite safe, 

 whether feeding, wandering slowly about, or preparing to roost. The call note is very 



