52 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



distance, until, like a lodestone, the eye is drawn up to the crown of mighty snow-peaks, 

 glowing pink and white. Here and there on the slope before us gleam the white 

 stars of magnolia blossoms, and to our left a slash of scarlet and another of pale 

 salmon show where forests of rhododendrons are in full blossom. We step down 

 and in rubber-shod footgear silently clamber from ledge to boulder, each moss-clad 

 and lichen-painted. For a while we hear no sound save the tinkle of drops in the plash 

 of some diminutive waterfall. Then comes a subdued murmur, chirps and twitters, 

 and, peering over a great mass of rock, we see a rhododendron tree loaded with 

 blossoms of an intense cerise, all a-quiver with the forms of a hundred little birds. 

 There are scores of flower-peckers clad in delicate hues of grey, vinous and orange- 

 buff, and still smaller fiycatching-warblers in liveries of yellow and olive-green. A 

 perfect medley of metallic notes arises, and far off to the left another tree in bloom 

 is traceable by ear from a similar dainty tumult. 



Every now and then the breeze coming down the ravine is heavy with the 

 strong, sweet perfume of the daphne or paper lilac, and the pink fiowerlets are 

 floating on every quiet pool. Where an earthen bank shows clear of bamboo stems, 

 it is starred with blossoms, primroses, violets, strawberries and forget-me-nots. Every- 

 where the ravine is sweet with perfume and glowing with colour. 



Down and down we clamber, the bamboos in some places growing close to the 

 narrow torrent bed in serried ranks of mottled green and brown. Under a projecting 

 bank of earth a pair of orange-gorgeted flycatchers are working on their half-finished 

 nest, and show no fear of us as we stand within arm's reach. Not a note of annoyance 

 do they utter, but only watch us with dark, liquid, reproachful eyes until we dis- 

 appear around the next turn. Here we find a deep, boulder-framed, half-cavern and 

 crouch down within its cool shadow. 



We hear some small creature making its way through the bamboo close at hand, 

 and now and then a sudden crackle of leaves shows that it is a bird scratching 

 among the litter. Several minutes after it passes we look out and see a Tragopan 

 hen twenty feet above, drinking from a pool. A sudden qnak ! quak I from down 

 the ravine draws our startled glance to a cock Tragopan just disappearing over the 

 feathery bamboo tops, and when we again look upward the hen has vanished and 

 our Tragopan study is over for that morning. Such is a glimpse of the haunts of 

 these glorious birds. 



As in the case of other birds inhabiting these lofty regions, Tragopans work 

 gradually downward at the approach of the cold and snow of winter. Even at this 

 season, however, there seems to be little or no gregariousness on the part of the 

 birds, although, from the reports of English sportsmen and natives, one or two young 

 birds and the mother keep together for the greater part of the winter. At this season 

 of the year the birds are silent, unless the hen still communicates with her nearly 

 grown young by means of the same low, clucking call which is used when they are 

 chicks. Only when in dire fright or distress, as when suddenly flushed by a dog, 

 do the birds — both cocks and hens— give utterance to a series of loud, raucous notes : 

 quak ! quak ! quak ! quak ! This is language whose meaning is clearly understood 

 by all feathered creatures within hearing, and after the echoes of the alarm have died 

 away, they will often be taken up by the croaks of a pair of inquisitive ravens, or 



