154 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 



One of the greatest triumphs of my pheasant search came at the end of a cold, 

 bracing day in early winter. I was camped upon the bare summit of a rounded knoll, 

 and all through the night there was heard the sound of the rushing waters which 

 tumbled over the great boulders of the deep ravines on either side. Except for this 

 the nights were, as a rule, silent ; the most startling sound being the frantic squeal of 

 an unfortunate pig, pursued or caught by some beast of prey. 



Waking in the early dusk, one heard only the soothing, distant roar of the streams, 

 and now and then the footstep of the Gurkha sentry. Hardly had the jungle of the 

 opposite slopes appeared through the cloud-drenched dawn, when the notes of a 

 whistling thrush rose clear and sweet. A splendid, sturdy bird, making its home 

 among the moss-hung oaks, over a mile above the sea — its song was worthy of owner 

 and place. Its blue-black coat was still wet with dew as its throat poured forth a 

 series of penetrating flute-like tones. They rose above the roar of the torrent, and 

 for a half hour jungle and mountain were silent, listening to this superb matin. Then, 

 as suddenly as it began, the song ceased, and not a note was heard until at dawn again 

 the following morning. 



Close upon the brightening of the dawn came another sound, not of the wilderness 

 and yet with a wildness hardly human — the pitiful wail of some insane Kachin child, 

 which had awakened from its bitter sleep to its still more bitter daily life. It strove 

 to put its poor deformed mind upon the task of gathering a few of the myriad sticks 

 lying everywhere in the jungle, to carry them to the hut of some native — perhaps its 

 parents who have discarded it, or of a strange Chinese — in exchange for a mouthful 

 of rice. What heart could fail to be moved by the terrified sobbing of these poor 

 creatures which haunted the forests about every village, where even the normal natives 

 lived day and night in dread of the tiger-formed, evil " nats." Apart from nature 

 as they were, one could not enter these regions without encountering these hopeless 

 waifs, haunting jungle and trail. 



The light now came quickly, and with it a multitude of birds' voices, and from 

 the distant jungle the jubilant rollicking chorus of the jolly hoolick gibbons. Every 

 creature here is a sun worshipper — for shade means the chill of death, and sun the 

 bracing warmth which one can enjoy best only upon these high roofs of the world. 



The sun had topped the great jagged barrier which led straight down from the heart 

 of the unknown north, and on our sturdy little mountain ponies we crossed a foaming 

 stream and began a stiff zigzag climb, the trail full of deep ruts and rolling stones. 

 Now and then we came to a ledge over which the horses scrambled on knees and hocks. 

 At the last open field we dismounted, and turned the ponies over to the Sikh. At an 

 angle of forty-five degrees we slid, scrambled and scraped our way through the soft 

 ground to the bottom of the ravine where the cold shade of early twilight still reigned. 



Here we separated, and I made my way slowly up stream, creeping over the great 

 rounded boulders, or wading through the rush of icy water. Every turn revealed new 

 beauties. An enormous overhanging mass of quartz loomed up draped with swaying 

 vines, and, beyond, a little sandy bay was fretted with the tracks of pheasants, cats and 

 deer. In the spots of sunlight among the higher branches crimson butterflies flitted 

 about, and white-fronted redstarts dashed ahead from stone to stone. 



Stopping at a favourable opening, a half-mile up stream, I began my laborious 



