﻿IJIMA'S 
  COPPER 
  PHEASANT 
  171 
  

  

  In 
  such 
  a 
  place 
  I 
  have 
  pitched 
  my 
  green 
  umbrella 
  tent, 
  and 
  making 
  my 
  way 
  

   to 
  it 
  as 
  quietly 
  as 
  possible, 
  I 
  part 
  the 
  cloth 
  and 
  creep 
  within. 
  I 
  am 
  glad 
  to 
  rest 
  

   after 
  the 
  hard 
  climb, 
  and, 
  lying 
  still, 
  I 
  listen 
  to 
  the 
  wind 
  soughing 
  through 
  the 
  

   trees. 
  Now 
  and 
  then 
  there 
  comes 
  a 
  deeper 
  bass 
  — 
  the 
  needle 
  music 
  of 
  a 
  gigantic 
  pine, 
  

   which 
  tops 
  even 
  the 
  camphor 
  trees 
  down 
  the 
  slope. 
  I 
  have 
  plucked 
  a 
  leaf 
  from 
  one 
  

   of 
  the 
  huge 
  trunks 
  near 
  me, 
  and 
  the 
  whole 
  air 
  is 
  perfumed 
  with 
  the 
  aromatic 
  camphor 
  

   incense, 
  seeming 
  strangely 
  tropical 
  amid 
  the 
  early 
  spring 
  of 
  this 
  northern 
  land. 
  For 
  

   through 
  the 
  trees 
  I 
  can 
  see 
  the 
  drooping 
  branches 
  of 
  willows 
  laden 
  with 
  catkins, 
  and 
  the 
  

   tang 
  of 
  spring 
  is 
  in 
  the 
  air. 
  

  

  Birds 
  are 
  not 
  numerous, 
  but 
  all 
  are 
  vocal 
  with 
  twitterings 
  and 
  chirps 
  — 
  all 
  save 
  a 
  

   single 
  shrike, 
  which 
  perches 
  for 
  a 
  moment 
  on 
  a 
  distant 
  twig. 
  Active 
  little 
  white-eyes 
  

   are 
  the 
  most 
  numerous, 
  creeping 
  vireo-like 
  among 
  the 
  mossy 
  branches. 
  Now 
  and 
  then 
  

   a 
  small 
  flock 
  of 
  rosy 
  finches 
  whirls 
  past 
  with 
  sharp 
  metallic 
  tinks. 
  White-tailed 
  finches 
  

   rise 
  from 
  the 
  newly 
  ploughed 
  fields 
  far 
  below, 
  as 
  a 
  young 
  Japanese 
  boy 
  passes 
  with 
  a 
  

   load 
  of 
  radishes. 
  The 
  only 
  song 
  we 
  hear 
  is 
  the 
  double-phrased 
  dyal-bird-like 
  melody 
  of 
  

   the 
  " 
  heodori." 
  

  

  The 
  cryptomerias 
  show 
  among 
  the 
  pines 
  as 
  patches 
  of 
  rich 
  russet 
  — 
  due 
  to 
  their 
  

   flowering 
  tips. 
  When 
  a 
  tit 
  or 
  other 
  small 
  bird 
  alights 
  on 
  a 
  branch, 
  a 
  perfect 
  cloud 
  of 
  

   smoke-hued 
  pollen 
  floats 
  off 
  upon 
  the 
  air. 
  Little 
  danger 
  of 
  any 
  flowers 
  on 
  these 
  trees 
  

   failing 
  to 
  be 
  fertilized 
  ! 
  

  

  Behind 
  my 
  tent, 
  and 
  in 
  a 
  score 
  of 
  other 
  places 
  near 
  by, 
  I 
  can 
  see 
  wild 
  wisteria, 
  

   climbing 
  shrubs 
  or 
  vines, 
  twining 
  around 
  the 
  trunks 
  and 
  branches 
  of 
  pines 
  and 
  other 
  

   trees. 
  Their 
  grasp 
  is 
  gentle, 
  with 
  none 
  of 
  the 
  fierce, 
  deadly 
  compressing 
  of 
  tropical 
  

   vines 
  and 
  lianas. 
  In 
  time 
  these 
  will 
  reveal 
  beauty 
  in 
  wonderful 
  splendour. 
  Now 
  only 
  

   tiny, 
  brown, 
  scaled 
  buds 
  hint 
  of 
  latent 
  life 
  within, 
  but 
  a 
  few 
  weeks 
  hence 
  the 
  great 
  

   pendant 
  purple 
  pompons 
  of 
  the 
  wisteria 
  will 
  uncoil 
  and 
  fill 
  the 
  valleys 
  with 
  colour 
  and 
  

   odour. 
  Some 
  of 
  the 
  masses 
  of 
  bloom 
  are 
  said 
  to 
  be 
  five 
  feet 
  long. 
  

  

  A 
  pair 
  of 
  Japanese 
  ravens 
  croak 
  hoarsely 
  as 
  a 
  brown 
  kite 
  soars 
  slowly 
  past, 
  

   and 
  then 
  suddenly 
  the 
  big 
  black 
  birds 
  are 
  silent 
  and 
  drop 
  from 
  their 
  perch, 
  winging 
  

   swiftly 
  along 
  the 
  steep 
  mountain-side. 
  There 
  must 
  be 
  something 
  disturbing 
  the 
  wild 
  

   creatures 
  farther 
  along 
  and 
  still 
  higher 
  on 
  the 
  ridge. 
  A 
  flurry 
  of 
  small 
  birds 
  — 
  tits 
  and 
  

   sparrows 
  — 
  drifts 
  nervously 
  past, 
  and 
  a 
  faint, 
  distant 
  whirr 
  of 
  wings 
  tells 
  me 
  that 
  larger 
  

   birds 
  are 
  a-flight. 
  Fortunately 
  my 
  eyes 
  are 
  at 
  a 
  slit 
  looking 
  along 
  the 
  slope 
  to 
  the 
  

   eastward, 
  when 
  there 
  come 
  into 
  view 
  two 
  pheasants, 
  a 
  cock 
  and 
  hen, 
  scaling 
  toward 
  

   me 
  on 
  bowed, 
  motionless 
  wings. 
  They 
  swerve 
  when 
  a 
  few 
  yards 
  away, 
  and 
  with 
  quick 
  

   beats 
  break 
  their 
  speed 
  and 
  settle, 
  running 
  out 
  the 
  impetus 
  of 
  their 
  landing. 
  Then 
  they 
  

   " 
  freeze," 
  and 
  at 
  that 
  moment 
  two 
  more 
  Copper 
  Pheasants, 
  hens 
  this 
  time, 
  appear, 
  and 
  

   fly 
  on 
  past 
  my 
  tent 
  and 
  around 
  a 
  curving 
  out-jutting 
  terrace 
  of 
  rock. 
  

  

  Five 
  minutes 
  pass 
  and 
  the 
  birds 
  regain 
  their 
  composure. 
  There 
  is 
  no 
  hint 
  of 
  pursuit, 
  

   and 
  they 
  peck 
  here 
  and 
  there 
  among 
  the 
  fallen 
  camphor 
  leaves. 
  A 
  yard 
  nearer 
  they 
  

   come 
  and 
  find 
  some 
  source 
  of 
  food 
  which 
  holds 
  their 
  attention 
  for 
  ten 
  minutes 
  or 
  more. 
  

   The 
  cock 
  scratches 
  vigorously, 
  then 
  backs 
  away 
  and 
  flicks 
  the 
  turf 
  with 
  his 
  beak. 
  Now 
  

   and 
  then 
  he 
  utters 
  a 
  low 
  crooning 
  note, 
  but 
  does 
  not 
  share 
  his 
  spoils 
  with 
  his 
  mate, 
  who, 
  

   several 
  feet 
  away, 
  is 
  equally 
  busy, 
  but 
  silent. 
  

  

  Stepping 
  out 
  of 
  the 
  shade 
  of 
  the 
  forest, 
  the 
  cock 
  mounts 
  a 
  boulder, 
  and 
  makes 
  a 
  

  

  