156 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 
adult bird we can find no such background. Shining white spots of such size are 
not scattered about upon the jungle debris, and whether stalking beside a brook in 
an open glade, or half-hidden by climbing ferns, the White-tailed Pheasant in the 
glory of his full beauty is striking and conspicuous anywhere. Twice I had oppor- 
tuuity to see both males and females alarmed, and both times it was the white- 
tailed adult which fled first; swiftly, without a backward glance or hesitation; the 
duller individuals waiting a moment to see if the danger was imminent. Once a 
solitary female squatted for an instant, before my hand touched a twig and sent her 
too flying headlong, threading the fern-stems as if they were no obstruction. This 
is the best proof we have, and I consider that many of our ultimate conclusions 
must rest upon just such evidence. The realization of danger is most acute in the 
bird whose plumage is inevitably conspicuous; the sense of trust to assimilation 
with the surroundings—wholly instinctive though it be—indicates with absolute 
certainty that many, many times such behaviour had enabled the little brown hen 
to escape observation. The red eye, feet and legs and purplish wattles detract, if 
anything, from the general conspicuousness of the pheasant. There are myriads of 
red or pink or purple jungle shades—dead or insect-eaten leaves, lichens, fungus, 
moss, bark, begonia stems, and scores of other unnamed and unnameable. But as 
for the flaunting white tail, that splendid badge of reward for three years’ successful 
striving against the thousand and one forest dangers, it mimics nothing, it flares 
out like a heliograph; the brave owner finds his food, his mate, and lives his life 
in spite of it, with only his keen eyes and ears and his swift scarlet feet as counter- 
balancing assets. 
And how little all these count for when pitted against the native savages. The 
rainy season has come to an end—the jungle pools are dried up, and every day the 
White-tail must make longer and longer pilgrimages to the low-lying marshy country. 
One day he turns his steps toward the river itself, walking steadily over hill after 
hill, at last turning into a narrow valley. Halfway down a pile of brush obstructs 
his path, and strive though he will, he can find no way past it. A few yards 
farther and an opening appears, just wide enough for him to step through. His 
scarlet toes press upon the loose bamboo sticks lying at the mouth, there is a sudden 
snap, the whole world revolves and high in the air the splendid bird dangles, swaying 
back and forth from the bent sapling. Perhaps death comes swiftly from a passing 
civet cat, perhaps the following morning the Dyak trapper goes his rounds. But 
no matter whether soon or late, the days, months, years of watchfulness, from the 
chick which crouchéd and watched the civet slink past, to the white-tailed bird 
which yesterday out-saw and out-ran the swift-footed moon rat itself—all have been 
in vain. The Dyak squaw strips the shining plumage from the body, or sells it for 
a few beads to a passing Chinaman; the White-tailed Pheasant has run its race. 
CAPTIVITY 
The first knowledge we have of these birds in captivity is of the pair which 
were sent to Sourabaya, Java. The male died in that island, but the female reached 
the Amsterdam Zoological Gardens, being so weakened by the journey, however, that 
