MALAY ARGUS PHEASANT 119 



dancing-place. Lying in my hammock, night after night I have heard the cry of an 

 Argus, distinguished by a marked inflection, come from the summit of a ridge where I 

 knew was an occupied dancing-ground. The less powerful and more throaty voices of 

 young males are unmistakable, and another identifying character is their nomadic 

 quality. I have heard such a bird become audible over the ridge on one side of which 

 I was concealed, and by its rather frequent utterances I was able to follow it on its 

 course down to the narrow stream at the bottom and up the opposite slope. Whether 

 or not the adult males ever call away from the dancing-ground, I have at least never 

 known one to be audibly motile as in this case. 



Judging by the time of calling, Argus are decidedly crepuscular or nocturnal. They 

 begin almost invariably just at sunset, the calls increasing in vigour and number as the 

 night shuts down. After midnight they diminish unless there is a bright moon, when 

 the vocal summons is renewed, and continues until daylight. On cloudy days it is not 

 uncommon to hear them, but seldom in the bright glare of sunshine. It is unques- 

 tionably true that during the moment of utterance the birds seem to be quite deaf, and 

 by advancing only during those fractions of time, one can get quite close to the calling 

 pheasant. With all the woodcraft of which I was master, I was unable, however, in 

 this fashion, to come within sight of the bird. Always, when I was still several yards 

 away, some noise of leaf or twig, inaudible perhaps to me, would warn the bird, and, 

 unless I retreated, I might wait an hour, or as long as the leeches would permit, but the 

 bird would give no more warning of its presence. Twenty minutes after I reached 

 camp, kweau would again ring out — with, as I fancied, an added twang of derision. 



Kweau represents the note to my ears as most usually heard, some birds snapping 

 it off short, others dragging so that all the vowels are distinct. Usually it sounds like 

 a double note, and occasionally brings to mind the jolly wah-hoo of the wa-was or 

 gibbons. This cry is often uttered singly, after which there is a pause, the bird 

 apparently listening, both for the approach of a mate and for danger. Now and then, 

 moved by I know not what emotion, there comes a rapid succession of kweaus, ending 

 in a long-drawn-out and very loud one. It is an extremely powerful and penetrating 

 sound, and with the help of the wind must be audible at a very great distance. 

 Davison, who gives the voice of the male as how-how, says that the call of the female 

 is "quite distinct, sounding like how-owoo, how-owoo, the last syllable much prolonged, 

 repeated ten or a dozen times, but getting more and more rapid, until it ends in a series 

 of owods run together." Of this I know nothing. I have heard the female call her 

 chicks only in the orthodox language of hens in general, a low cluck, with a still more 

 subdued murmuring as a slight warning, and a single, sharp, indescribable note of alarm 

 when danger threatened. 



Although with a greater surface of wing than almost any bird, this excess is for 

 display, not for alar function, and the cock Argus Pheasant is a heavy, poor flier. But 

 it can go rapidly enough on occasion, as I have been fortunate enough to witness. I 

 once saw a dog playfully attack a captive but full-winged male Argus. At the first rush, 

 the bird leaped high in the air and let the animal pass beneath him, and before the dog 

 could turn, it half ran, half leaped along the dog's back trail, and after three or four flaps 

 rose and beat swiftly upward to a branch. It was a beautiful sight, the long, pliant 

 secondaries bending gracefully upward at the impact of air on each downstroke, while 



