﻿SCINTILLATING 
  COPPER 
  PHEASANT 
  163 
  

  

  feathery 
  expanse 
  of 
  bamboo, 
  graduated 
  from 
  green 
  at 
  the 
  base 
  to 
  pale 
  brown 
  at 
  the 
  

   tips. 
  A 
  few 
  hundred 
  yards 
  farther 
  on 
  rose 
  a 
  dense, 
  black 
  mat 
  of 
  cryptomeria 
  and 
  pines. 
  

  

  In 
  the 
  heart 
  of 
  the 
  preserve 
  I 
  found 
  myself 
  in 
  a 
  curious 
  landscape. 
  A 
  multitude 
  

   of 
  little 
  rolling 
  knolls, 
  all 
  thickly 
  wooded 
  or 
  covered 
  with 
  brush, 
  isolated 
  by 
  a 
  flat 
  

   grassy 
  plain, 
  much 
  of 
  which 
  had 
  been 
  broken 
  down 
  by 
  the 
  tramping 
  of 
  soldiers 
  and 
  

   the 
  hoofs 
  of 
  horses. 
  From 
  first 
  one 
  direction, 
  then 
  another, 
  there 
  came 
  the 
  broken 
  

   crow 
  of 
  pheasants 
  from 
  these 
  knolls. 
  

  

  I 
  searched 
  one 
  knoll 
  carefully 
  but 
  found 
  nothing 
  of 
  interest. 
  A 
  second 
  turned 
  out 
  

   to 
  be 
  a 
  kind 
  of 
  outjutting 
  bit 
  of 
  forest 
  connected 
  with 
  a 
  reedy 
  marsh 
  of 
  considerable 
  

   extent. 
  A 
  high 
  wind 
  had 
  suddenly 
  arisen, 
  and 
  the 
  rustle 
  of 
  leaves 
  masked 
  any 
  noise 
  

   of 
  my 
  advance. 
  I 
  crept 
  from 
  tree 
  to 
  tree 
  and 
  at 
  last 
  reached 
  the 
  edge 
  on 
  the 
  

   marsh 
  side. 
  I 
  peered 
  behind 
  the 
  last 
  pine 
  and 
  was 
  astonished 
  to 
  see 
  just 
  beneath 
  my 
  

   face 
  a 
  nestful 
  of 
  eggs. 
  There 
  were 
  five 
  pale-creamy 
  shells, 
  well 
  sunk 
  in 
  a 
  setting 
  

   of 
  dead 
  leaves. 
  I 
  did 
  not 
  wait 
  for 
  a 
  second 
  glance, 
  but 
  retreated 
  at 
  once 
  and 
  circled 
  

   around 
  to 
  the 
  left 
  until 
  I 
  was 
  at 
  right 
  angles. 
  Here 
  I 
  found 
  three 
  cryptomerias 
  

   growing 
  close 
  together, 
  the 
  great 
  trunks 
  forming 
  an 
  admirable 
  shield, 
  and 
  here 
  

   I 
  mounted 
  my 
  field 
  battery 
  of 
  binoculars 
  and 
  awaited 
  developments. 
  

  

  At 
  the 
  edge 
  of 
  the 
  marsh 
  was 
  an 
  extensive 
  rookery, 
  and 
  the 
  sudden 
  gale 
  of 
  wind 
  

   was 
  playing 
  havoc 
  with 
  the 
  great 
  stick 
  nests. 
  The 
  day 
  before, 
  rain 
  had 
  fallen 
  

   in 
  torrents, 
  and 
  now 
  this 
  wind, 
  howling 
  through 
  the 
  tree-tops, 
  was 
  the 
  last 
  of 
  the 
  storm. 
  

   Far, 
  far 
  away 
  through 
  the 
  clean 
  washed 
  air 
  I 
  could 
  see 
  the 
  majestic 
  summit 
  of 
  Fuji, 
  

   standing 
  out 
  like 
  shining 
  new 
  porcelain 
  against 
  the 
  deep 
  blue 
  of 
  the 
  sky. 
  The 
  rooks 
  

   hung 
  croaking 
  in 
  mid-air 
  watching 
  the 
  dissolution 
  of 
  their 
  homes, 
  sticks 
  mingled 
  with 
  

   broken 
  eggs 
  hurtling 
  down 
  among 
  the 
  reeds. 
  

  

  An 
  hour 
  passed 
  and 
  the 
  gale 
  died 
  down 
  as 
  quickly 
  as 
  it 
  had 
  arisen, 
  the 
  swaying 
  

   trunks 
  and 
  whipping 
  branches 
  coming 
  to 
  rest 
  and 
  the 
  rooks 
  betaking 
  themselves 
  

   elsewhere. 
  Titmice 
  swung 
  upside 
  down 
  before 
  me, 
  or 
  clung 
  to 
  the 
  mossy 
  trunks, 
  

   spying 
  me 
  out, 
  but 
  taking 
  me 
  philosophically, 
  not 
  screaming 
  "thief" 
  to 
  all 
  the 
  world, 
  

   as 
  the 
  well-named 
  babblers 
  of 
  India 
  would 
  have 
  done. 
  

  

  Behind 
  me 
  is 
  a 
  thin 
  growth 
  of 
  spindling 
  bamboo, 
  four 
  to 
  eight 
  feet 
  in 
  height, 
  with 
  

   cryptomerias, 
  pines 
  and 
  maples. 
  The 
  debris 
  on 
  the 
  ground 
  is 
  chiefly 
  of 
  dead, 
  

   blanched, 
  linear 
  bamboo 
  leaves 
  and 
  a 
  maze 
  of 
  pine 
  needles, 
  with 
  a 
  scattering 
  of 
  

   roundish 
  cones. 
  Flowers 
  are 
  a 
  few 
  violets, 
  a 
  bluish 
  spike 
  of 
  minute 
  flowerets 
  and 
  

   a 
  yellow 
  clover-like 
  blossom. 
  

  

  A 
  black-and-white-headed 
  bunting 
  sings 
  near 
  by, 
  flirting 
  its 
  white 
  outer 
  

   tail-feathers, 
  and 
  a 
  dove 
  coos 
  sonorously 
  among 
  the 
  pine 
  branches 
  overhead. 
  Snakes 
  

   in 
  numbers 
  come 
  out 
  into 
  the 
  spots 
  of 
  warm 
  sunlight 
  and 
  coil 
  in 
  contentment 
  on 
  the 
  

   dry 
  leaves, 
  dark 
  brown 
  in 
  colour, 
  much 
  like 
  the 
  leaves, 
  but 
  with 
  conspicuous 
  shining 
  

   black 
  markings 
  on 
  the 
  neck. 
  

  

  In 
  my 
  interest 
  I 
  have 
  forgotten 
  the 
  nest 
  for 
  a 
  few 
  moments, 
  and 
  when 
  I 
  again 
  

   glance 
  through 
  the 
  glasses 
  the 
  eggs 
  are 
  gone. 
  At 
  least 
  that 
  is 
  my 
  first 
  impression, 
  

   and 
  restraining 
  my 
  inclination 
  to 
  leap 
  up 
  and 
  search 
  for 
  the 
  marauder, 
  I 
  look 
  ao-ain 
  and 
  

   resolve 
  the 
  body 
  of 
  the 
  sitting 
  bird. 
  A 
  beautiful 
  picture 
  of 
  the 
  forest 
  debris 
  she 
  makes, 
  

   a 
  marbling 
  of 
  grey 
  and 
  rufous 
  and 
  black, 
  and 
  my 
  naked 
  eye 
  absolutely 
  refuses 
  at 
  

   this 
  distance 
  to 
  separate 
  her 
  from 
  her 
  surroundings. 
  

  

  