254 A MONOGRAPH OF THE PHEASANTS 
am inclined to think that the home range of these birds on the coast is extremely 
limited. On the other hand, forest wardens, the only reliable natives with whom I 
came in contact, informed me that in the rainy season the number of Junglefowl 
was augmented by birds from the interior, which came down from the hills for 
some reason toward the coast, and retired at the beginning of the dry season. As 
even at the height of three thousand feet there would be no temperature change 
sufficient to account for this general shifting, we must credit it to a direct food 
stimulus, or a desire to escape from the excessive humidity of the hills at this time 
of the year. 
Although the breeding season had scarcely begun, I found the cocks very voluble, 
crowing not only in early morning, but even when feeding, and in the presence of 
other adult cocks. These would sometimes crow af one another, the challenge 
and defiance ending, however, with the vocal outburst. Later, the affair would 
doubtless have entailed more serious results. . 
I was able to master the essentials of the wild fowl’s vocabulary from my blind. 
The note of content, when lazily feeding, or when stretched out on their side flicking 
the dust over and through their wings, was a slowly uttered, drawn-out wah, wih, wak, 
wak. ‘Nhen several captive cocks were placed in their respective baskets close to 
one another, they would talk for an hour at a time, the tone being a most irritating, 
rasping drawl, which seemed never to cease, but as soon as one bird got out of 
breath, it was instantly taken up by a second, and so on ad nauseum. When 
suspicion of danger came to the wild birds, and the alarm brought them to full 
attention in readiness to escape, the note was the syllable chof/ chop! chop! or 
op! op! uttered many times, sharply and in quick succession. When in this 
emotional state, the cocks held their head high, the position distending the brilliant 
throat wattle into a gorgeous sheet of colour. The tail was, at the same time, 
lowered, until the feathers fairly dragged on the ground. Another mood, apparently 
when the bird is certain of impending danger and all too willing to escape, but does 
not know from which quarter it threatens, is indicated by a series of disagreeable, 
shrill, metallic tones, drawn out like the content note of a domestic hen, but of 
the same timbre as the despairing wail of a captured fowl: awk-awwwwk-aaaawwwk ! 
The note of utter despair when a bird is cornered and makes a final wild effort at 
escape, or when a captive bird is seized by the legs, is a long-drawn-out wail, almost 
peacock-like, louder and quite different in quality from the last call described, 
au—waaaaak ! and uttered only once or twice, after which the bird is silent. 
The notes of the female are somewhat different. The call-note, which is usually 
answered by other birds within hearing, sounds like chak, chak, chak, repeated 
slowly six to ten times. The call of suspicion or uneasy curiosity is a high, strident 
ak-kak-kak-kak-kak-kak, kept up at a rapid rate from ten seconds to half a minute. 
I was told by natives in widely-separated parts of Java, that the hen invariably 
made an outcry when she left her nest to feed—whether after laying an egg or not, 
I could not learn. This note was given me as kowak, kowak, kowak, kokOwak, and 
such was the general agreement, independently confirmed, that I am inclined to 
give it some credence; at least I present it for what it is worth. 
The imitations of the crow of the wild cock, which were given me in various 
