216 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 
is past the birds are not nearly as concerned in keeping to their own particular beat, yet 
they do not appear to wander far. Four birds—two pairs—have been known to inhabit 
a circumscribed area of semi-desert scrub for a year and a half, breeding some two 
hundred yards apart, and almost never leaving this zone, which was bounded by two 
small streams. The young appeared to leave when full grown, and to settle elsewhere. 
While I have stalked and watched Ceylon Junglefowl in the forests of the hills, 
I became most intimate with the bird in the semi-arid scrub of the south-east coastal 
lands. Here the vegetation is eucalyptus, acacias, and mesquite, with introduced cacti 
now forming one of the dominant floral features. The region as a whole is park-like, 
the thorn bushes and trees forming glades, sometimes dry and sandy, or again with little 
pools of water, and a thick carpeting of coarse grass. Into these open spaces the 
Junglefowl come to feed and exercise, leaving the denser coverts, in which they roost and 
to which they retire during the heat of mid-day. 
In such a region, well up on the south-east coast, I found them very abundant in 
March. As I have said, it was possible to hear as many as a dozen birds calling, as one 
listened in the early morning, and during a walk of several miles in any direction their 
numbers did not seem to decrease. As one approached any given bird it would take 
alarm and cease crowing, and not infrequently I would catch a momentary glimpse of it 
as it dashed away, but a little way farther on, the voice of another bird would come into 
range, then others to right and left, and standing quietly one could count as many 
individuals as from the first point of listening. 
I have never seen more than five birds together at one time, and of these, three were 
birds of the year, very evidently the brood of the remaining pair. From all that I have 
heard I believe these Junglefowl to be rather unsocial, except that several hens with 
their broods seem to flock together at times, the association being, however, somewhat 
loose except during the early life of the chicks. 
The voice of the Ceylon Junglefowl is very characteristic, and not to be confused 
with the notes of any other bird in the island. When softened and modified by distance, 
the crow has a reasonably close resemblance to the syllables George Joyce, but when 
heard at close quarters the quality which hints of an insistent summons to this 
particular gentleman disappears, and a third distinct note becomes audible. The 
syllables and the tempo which close attention suggests, is as follows: tsek, ——, ——, 
craw, crot! The dashes represent fifths equal in time to the duration of each of the 
three notes. The whole utterance is snapped off short at the end and the accent falls 
upon the final syllable. There is little variation, and while I have been able to 
recognize each one of three or four out of the dozen which I could hear from my 
hammock each morning, it was only by such means as a very slight difference in accent 
or a slurring over of the middle tone. When suspicious, but not certain of danger, the 
cock utters the ¢se# alone. When alarm begins to be felt this changes to clock, clock. 
This note, too, is uttered when they hear any unusual noise as they are about to go to 
roost. A bird in captivity, which when approached is so timid that it rushes nervously 
about looking for some way of escape, usually at the same time utters this sound. The » 
call of the cock to the hen is a low chack, chack, sometimes followed by a muffled 
tremolo of content. The cry of utter despair when the bird is suddenly flushed by dog or 
man, and takes to its wings in extremity of terror, is the usual loud gallinaceous cackle— 
