﻿H6 
  a 
  monograph 
  of 
  the 
  pheasants 
  

  

  One 
  of 
  the 
  women, 
  hardly 
  distinguishable 
  in 
  her 
  rags 
  and 
  dirt 
  from 
  the 
  men, 
  had 
  a 
  long, 
  

   slender 
  object 
  in 
  her 
  hair, 
  and 
  a 
  glance 
  through 
  the 
  glasses 
  showed 
  this 
  to 
  be 
  a 
  feather 
  

   from 
  a 
  Reeves 
  Pheasant 
  — 
  a 
  sense 
  of 
  beauty 
  even 
  in 
  these 
  lowest 
  of 
  toilers. 
  Even 
  as 
  I 
  

   looked 
  it 
  fell 
  out 
  and 
  was 
  trampled 
  underfoot. 
  

  

  A 
  few 
  minutes 
  more 
  took 
  me 
  out 
  of 
  sight 
  and 
  sound 
  of 
  the 
  writhing, 
  squirming 
  

   mass, 
  and 
  the 
  peace 
  of 
  the 
  wilderness 
  closed 
  down 
  upon 
  me. 
  For 
  a 
  mile 
  or 
  more 
  I 
  

   struggled 
  on, 
  through 
  dense 
  growths 
  of 
  coarse 
  grass 
  or 
  stunted 
  bamboo, 
  which 
  scraped 
  

   and 
  clung 
  to 
  my 
  leggings, 
  making 
  every 
  step 
  an 
  effort. 
  Then 
  the 
  undergrowth 
  

   thinned 
  and 
  a 
  scattering 
  of 
  pines 
  and 
  cypress-like 
  growth 
  appeared, 
  with 
  occasional 
  

   oaks. 
  

  

  When 
  crossing 
  a 
  ridge, 
  the 
  sky 
  cleared 
  for 
  a 
  moment 
  and 
  the 
  gorges 
  of 
  Ichang 
  

   appeared 
  clear 
  in 
  the 
  sunlight, 
  deep, 
  steel 
  blue 
  near 
  at 
  hand, 
  purpling 
  and 
  fading 
  into 
  

   the 
  distance. 
  Then 
  the 
  cold 
  clammy 
  mist 
  shut 
  down 
  again 
  and 
  for 
  the 
  rest 
  of 
  the 
  day 
  

   downright 
  rain 
  alternated 
  only 
  with 
  drizzle. 
  On 
  the 
  previous 
  days 
  I 
  had 
  heard 
  the 
  call 
  

   of 
  this 
  splendid 
  pheasant, 
  but 
  had 
  not 
  caught 
  even 
  a 
  glimpse 
  of 
  one. 
  I 
  had 
  learned 
  

   something 
  of 
  their 
  habits 
  from 
  a 
  native 
  hunter, 
  and 
  to-day 
  I 
  intended 
  to 
  pit 
  this 
  know- 
  

   ledge 
  against 
  their 
  keen 
  sight 
  and 
  hearing. 
  Reaching 
  at 
  last 
  the 
  main 
  dividing 
  ridge, 
  I 
  

   sent 
  my 
  China 
  boy 
  straight 
  down 
  toward 
  the 
  bottom, 
  while 
  I 
  made 
  my 
  way 
  along 
  and 
  

   just 
  below 
  the 
  ridge-top 
  for 
  a 
  mile 
  or 
  more. 
  At 
  this 
  point 
  oaks 
  predominated 
  and 
  in 
  

   their 
  shelter 
  I 
  crept 
  downward 
  until 
  I 
  stood 
  upon 
  a 
  little 
  outjutting 
  mass 
  of 
  rock, 
  with 
  a 
  

   shallow 
  fault 
  on 
  the 
  top, 
  into 
  which 
  I 
  crept. 
  Here 
  I 
  occasionally 
  had 
  an 
  excellent 
  view 
  

   of 
  the 
  whole 
  valley. 
  

  

  Within 
  reach 
  of 
  my 
  hand 
  were 
  mosses, 
  reeking 
  with 
  moisture. 
  To 
  the 
  left 
  down 
  

   the 
  slope 
  a 
  tangle 
  of 
  grass 
  was 
  surmounted 
  by 
  a 
  mass 
  of 
  pale 
  rose-coloured 
  azalea 
  

   blooms, 
  the 
  only 
  touch 
  of 
  warm 
  tone 
  in 
  the 
  entire 
  landscape. 
  Beyond 
  this, 
  my 
  view 
  

   was 
  intermittent. 
  Now 
  it 
  was 
  so 
  obscured 
  with 
  driving 
  rain 
  and 
  fog 
  that 
  the 
  world 
  was 
  

   only 
  a 
  few 
  steps 
  of 
  rock 
  and 
  moss 
  leading 
  into 
  a 
  chaos 
  of 
  pale 
  blue 
  mist. 
  Then 
  a 
  lift 
  of 
  

   warmer 
  air 
  would 
  come 
  rushing 
  up 
  the 
  valley 
  and 
  the 
  tossing 
  needles 
  of 
  the 
  trees 
  would 
  

   come 
  into 
  view, 
  and 
  even 
  the 
  rugged 
  dull 
  green 
  of 
  the 
  opposite 
  slope. 
  

  

  I 
  knew 
  I 
  was 
  far 
  from 
  any 
  Chinese 
  village, 
  but 
  even 
  in 
  this 
  isolated, 
  wild 
  spot 
  I 
  

   saw 
  evidence 
  of 
  the 
  omnipresent 
  Mongolian. 
  In 
  the 
  centre 
  of 
  the 
  opposite 
  side 
  of 
  the 
  

   valley 
  was 
  a 
  large 
  grave 
  of 
  weathered 
  stone, 
  the 
  gracefully 
  semicircular 
  wall 
  nestling 
  into 
  

   the 
  steep 
  slope, 
  and 
  though 
  obviously 
  of 
  man's 
  handiwork, 
  yet 
  not 
  out 
  of 
  harmony 
  with 
  

   the 
  wildness. 
  What 
  tremendous 
  labour 
  it 
  must 
  have 
  been 
  to 
  get 
  the 
  great 
  stones 
  up 
  to 
  

   that 
  spot 
  and 
  with 
  their 
  rude 
  tools 
  to 
  hollow 
  out 
  the 
  grave 
  and 
  the 
  thirty-foot 
  niche. 
  

  

  A 
  low 
  call 
  came 
  from 
  far 
  below 
  me, 
  and 
  soon 
  a 
  babbler 
  flew 
  up 
  and 
  uttered 
  its 
  loud 
  

   guffaw. 
  I 
  knew 
  that 
  it 
  had 
  discovered 
  something, 
  and 
  I 
  sent 
  forth 
  the 
  low, 
  penetrating 
  

   trill, 
  which 
  I 
  knew 
  would 
  make 
  my 
  boy 
  freeze 
  into 
  immobility 
  for 
  as 
  many 
  minutes 
  

   or 
  hours 
  as 
  I 
  chose. 
  

  

  Then 
  came 
  my 
  first 
  view 
  of 
  a 
  live 
  Reeves 
  in 
  its 
  wild 
  home 
  — 
  a 
  hen, 
  which 
  walked 
  

   slowly 
  into 
  view, 
  with 
  head 
  erect, 
  showing 
  the 
  contagion 
  of 
  suspicion 
  aroused 
  by 
  the 
  

   babbler. 
  She 
  leaped 
  upon 
  a 
  boulder 
  and 
  stood 
  quietly 
  for 
  many 
  minutes, 
  then 
  crept 
  

   down 
  the 
  side 
  of 
  the 
  rock 
  and 
  began 
  to 
  feed 
  up 
  the 
  slope 
  toward 
  me. 
  I 
  gave 
  the 
  signal 
  

   for 
  the 
  boy 
  to 
  return 
  to 
  the 
  sampan, 
  but 
  quietly 
  as 
  he 
  must 
  have 
  progressed, 
  he 
  was 
  

   nearer 
  the 
  birds 
  than 
  I 
  had 
  thought 
  possible, 
  and 
  with 
  a 
  low 
  croak 
  the 
  babbler 
  flew 
  a 
  

  

  