46 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 
were perched twenty feet up in the tree. They flew as soon as the fog thinned, 
and I found by the sign that their occupation of the tree had been for roosting 
purposes. 
The kaleege, for the most part, roosted at a moderate height in trees at some 
distance from the stream. Night after night they would return to the same tree, but if 
frightened would resort to some other place. In two such instances, the birds, pre- 
sumably the same pair in each case, again returned to the first roost after an interval of 
one or two nights. 
The kaleege showed little fear of the native Shans, who worked about their homes 
in the village, or with huge axes and tiny bows went into the forest for wood. I have 
seen a pheasant quietly scratching within ten feet of a trail along which Shans were 
passing from time to time, and close to the sound of chopping. 
Early morning was the best time to observe the birds. Just when the mists were 
beginning to clear away, but long before the sun reached the mountain tops, if one walked 
along the trail, the trees and bushes appeared much as near a New England road. Vines 
clambered high over the trees, and one saw leaves which simulated wild grape, witch 
hazel and alder. 
A bulbul would open the chorus with a phrase of clear, sweet notes, and a gang 
of laughing thrushes usually followed with a united guffaw, jay-like. Before the full 
morning songs of the smaller birds greeted the sun, doves’ voices were supreme—coos, 
high and low, from all directions. Then, softly, as from a distance, came a louder, muffled 
tone, and the sudden, unexpected break into a cackle which never failed to thrill me. After 
a space arose a mellow whirr—the sound of wings in rapid motion, and yet how unlike 
the sound of flight! The ear at once detected the difference—one the wing-beat set to 
music, the other the more usual hum of utility. The latter marks the acme of evolution 
through untold generations of awkward flapping reptiles; the former reaches the ideal— 
an approach to our own ability of adapting earthly evolved structures to psychic enjoyments. 
The wing-beat of the kaleege during the period of courtship is beyond doubt a 
challenge—cocks will respond with foolhardy impetuosity to a poor imitation. But 
I have known it to be produced by a hen, and have seen the chicks run to her at the 
sound. I have seen it used, as I have narrated, by the survivors in an attempt to 
summon a fallen member of the flock. When it is produced in early morning by 
yearling birds at the end of the rains, I accredit it without hesitation to the same 
outburst of feeling which prompts the bulbul’s song at this non-breeding season—a 
symbol of sheer exuberant spirits. 
At this time of year (November) the kaleege were in pairs—feeding and roosting 
together—or in parties of three to five young birds, the sexes sometimes distinct, although 
occasionally, at a distance from Wau-hsaung, I saw them mingling together. 
There were one or two tigers in the vicinity of Wau-hsaung, but I suppose the birds 
had little to fear from these large carnivora. But some species of small cat fed regularly 
on the chocolate squirrels, with a narrow white ventral band, which were so abundant here. 
I found their tracks often near the haunts of the pheasants, and once I came across the 
remains of a kaleege strewn about a favourite drinking-place of the cats. Twice I heard 
pheasants in what must have been sheer extremity—that cry of despair which, even when 
it emanates from a domestic fowl, serves to silence every bird within hearing. This cat, 
