[28 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



thoroughly out of patience with the hens, who gaze at the efforts of their gorgeous suitor 

 with less enthusiasm than they manifest in searching for the next grub ! We humans 

 stand transfixed by the beauty, longing for more real insight into the minds of 

 these little mountain folk ; striving for some clue as to how it all came about and 

 exactly what it all means. How willingly would I seize upon the least hint of conscious 

 appreciation ; how ready I stand waiting to exaggerate anything which I could interpret 

 as akin to our human aesthetic sense ; but the most ardent lover of birds, if he is 

 perfectly frank with himself, must acknowledge that birds seem almost to lack this 

 faculty. I have seen an Impeyan which by accident had lost its tail, raise and spread 

 the coverts with as great eclat as though his splendid orange fan was perfect. I believe 

 if his plumage was dyed the most ugly colour in the world, the ardour of his courtship 

 would abate not one whit. There seems considerable reason to believe that such a 

 transformation would affect the hen, but that her aesthetic sensibilities would be hurt 

 I cannot believe ! 



The inconspicuous mottled cloak which Nature has wrapped about the female 

 Impeyan is essential for the month of incubation — that critical four weeks of her annual 

 life which must be lived in one spot. Think what a fearful handicap such a period 

 must be ; the bird, active and vigorous, able to watch for danger on tiptoe or from a tree, 

 to flee from it on foot or wing, suddenly becoming a static creature, voluntarily assuming 

 the role of a plant or stone, and even though she save her life at the very last gasp, her 

 eggs — as helpless as pebbles — lie ready for the maw of any passing foe. If within the 

 short period of my stay in the Himalayas, with the dulled senses of a human being, I 

 was able to discover three nests, how much more fatal must be the daily wanderings and 

 nocturnal pryings of the keen-nosed creatures of the forest ! 



The sun shone warmly down upon me as I lay one day on the fallen needles of a 

 great coniferous forest in the western Himalayas. It was the middle of May, perhaps 

 the most delightful time of the whole year. I had passed from the furnace heat of the 

 Indian plains, up through the barren, euphorbia-dotted lower zones, and after many 

 days' travel had reached these cool, upper forests over a mile and a half above the sea. 

 I sat at the edge of a narrow ravine, from which tall spruces and deodars rose straight 

 as plumb-lines high above the surrounding slopes. The sun shone fitfully ; now the 

 full warm glow lighted up the varying shades of green, and every needle was still. 

 Crested tits called, brilliant minivets dashed about among the highest branches. Then 

 a cloud passed, and a chill wind swept down from the snows, soughing through the 

 needles like the sound of continuous heavy surf. The holly-leaved oaks bent and 

 swayed, each twig tipped with the warm maroon of the young leaves. With each gust 

 a shower of tiny, brown, tissue-paper scales fell around me, each the liberty-cap of a new 

 deodar shoot. The branches were dotted with myriads of the pale green, velvety 

 brushes of new-born needles, while as many more were still striving to be free from the 

 split, pointed sheath-caps. Little insects love these fresh growths, and delight to eat 

 into their hearts and blight the hopes of a new Himalayan twiglet. Thus in turn is 

 explained the eagerness of the exploring flocks of tits and warblers. All were not in 

 flocks, however, for one little crested black tit did not swallow the spiders and grubs, 

 but filled her beak with them and flew straight to a tiny hole in the great four-foot bole 

 of a mighty spruce. The heart of the splendid tree, which had braved the gales from 



