MALAYAN CRESTED FIREBACK 123 
One day’s experience on a small unnamed tributary of the Pahang River, in the 
heart of that central Malayan State, is typical of many short trips which we made 
in search of this bird. The sun rises through the fogs which have drifted down 
from the mountains, and we find the air of early morning cool and invigorating. 
We follow a narrow game trail for a mile or more, and then turn aside into a 
creek bed. The moisture on the foliage soon drenches us, and we tramp through 
mud and water with as little noise as possible. In one likely spot we wait for an 
hour, but see nothing of the birds. We have heard one call far ahead of us and 
so keep on in hope. The sun seems to have leaped overhead and the whole jungle 
steams with heat. From now until we return we pant for breath, as if exercising 
in a hot-house or Turkish bath. Whenever we stop to listen, a myriad tiny gnats 
dance close before our eyes. Mosquitoes worry us on all sides—almost all Stegomyia, 
which we have roused from their resting-places on the leaves. One cannot but think 
what a terrible scourge to the natives of all this region yellow fever would be. 
Nothing could confine its ravages. 
At last we reach one of the old over-grown clearings, and begin to cut our 
way carefully, foot by foot, pressing the cables of serried, recurved teeth to one side. 
When we can go no further we stop exhausted. Two or three species of bulbuls 
are singing close by and a pair of big racket-tailed drongos swoop back and forth 
overhead. It is impossible to sit quiet on account of the flies and mosquitoes. We 
clear a circle of leaves and sit back to back, flicking away the leeches which are 
ever humping over the ground toward us. An hour passes, and only the tracks in 
the mud near by and the begonias torn up by the powerful scratching of the birds, 
hint of their earlier presence. 
Once, from a great distance, we hear the clear trumpet of an elephant and, 
shortly afterward, a cloud effaces the sun and a wind rustles the palm fronds. This 
increases to a gale, and instead of panting with still, humid heat we are shivering 
in the coolness. The birds have vanished, two long-tailed monkeys dash wildly from 
tree to tree, passing as swiftly as we could run. 
Then comes the rain—sudden, windless, torrential. At first we seek shelter 
beneath the camera cloth, but it is of no more use than so much mosquito-netting. 
Protecting the camera as best we may, we plod slowly back. Twenty yards from 
where we have been sitting, three Firebacks rush out from a clump of large-leaved 
plants and, with necks low, scatter in as many directions. This is our reward for 
the day’s work. 
I saw this species, however, a number of other times—once a pair unalarmed, 
scratching near an old decayed log, and feeding greedily on the termites which they 
uncovered. On another occasion, the glimpse was again but momentary, a sudden 
rush and rustle through the underbrush, never flying, but always with keen wit 
trusting to their great speed. 
Many years ago Davison wrote that “these birds frequent the thick evergreen 
forests in small parties of five or six; usually there is only one male in the party, 
the rest being females, but on one or two occasions I have seen two males together ; 
sometimes the males are found quite alone. I have never heard the males crow, nor 
do I think that they ever do so; when alarmed, both males and females have a 
