﻿190 
  A 
  MONOGRAPH 
  OF 
  THE 
  PHEASANTS 
  

  

  Amid 
  such 
  a 
  wild 
  amphitheatre 
  of 
  hills 
  in 
  early 
  spring 
  I 
  wait, 
  watching, 
  not 
  

   knowing 
  that 
  I 
  am 
  about 
  to 
  have 
  my 
  first 
  glimpse 
  of 
  Elliot's 
  pheasants. 
  I 
  am 
  

   sprawled 
  flat 
  upon 
  the 
  curving 
  seat 
  of 
  an 
  ancient 
  grave, 
  with 
  an 
  outlook 
  which 
  takes 
  in 
  

   two 
  great 
  sweeping 
  valleys 
  and 
  a 
  ribbon 
  of 
  river 
  winding 
  between. 
  The 
  outjutting 
  

   ridge 
  of 
  the 
  grave 
  site 
  rises 
  five 
  hundred 
  feet 
  above 
  the 
  muddy 
  river. 
  The 
  stream 
  

   zigzags 
  off 
  between 
  the 
  hills, 
  making 
  three 
  twists 
  before 
  it 
  is 
  lost 
  to 
  view. 
  

  

  The 
  sky 
  is 
  free 
  of 
  visible 
  clouds, 
  but 
  the 
  sunlight 
  is 
  filtered 
  through 
  an 
  intangible 
  

   mist, 
  which 
  weakens 
  the 
  shadows. 
  The 
  pale 
  green 
  of 
  the 
  lace-like 
  brakes 
  covers 
  the 
  

   hillside, 
  with 
  here 
  and 
  there 
  a 
  dash 
  of 
  white 
  — 
  the 
  flowers 
  of 
  some 
  unknown 
  vine. 
  A 
  

   single 
  patch 
  of 
  rose 
  brightens 
  the 
  shrubs 
  near 
  me 
  — 
  a 
  brave 
  azalea 
  bush, 
  which 
  has 
  

   opened 
  its 
  many 
  score 
  of 
  delicate 
  nasturtium-like 
  blossoms. 
  Hundreds 
  of 
  other 
  plants 
  

   of 
  this 
  species 
  dot 
  the 
  mountain, 
  but 
  as 
  yet 
  show 
  only 
  the 
  hint 
  of 
  rose 
  pink 
  at 
  the 
  seams 
  

   of 
  their 
  buds. 
  The 
  pines 
  — 
  all 
  saplings, 
  the 
  oldest 
  claiming 
  hardly 
  a 
  dozen 
  years 
  — 
  are 
  

   candelabra 
  of 
  blossoms, 
  each 
  twig 
  tipped 
  by 
  its 
  panicle 
  of 
  a 
  myriad 
  pollen 
  cups, 
  so 
  

   overflowing 
  that 
  the 
  least 
  breath 
  sends 
  uncountable 
  grains 
  aflight, 
  while 
  a 
  shake 
  fills 
  

   the 
  surrounding 
  air 
  with 
  a 
  yellow 
  cloud. 
  

  

  The 
  distant 
  phrase 
  of 
  a 
  dyal 
  bird 
  comes 
  clear 
  and 
  sweet 
  from 
  the 
  valley 
  behind. 
  

  

  The 
  warmth 
  has 
  just 
  begun 
  to 
  summon 
  to 
  life 
  the 
  hosts 
  of 
  the 
  coming 
  spring 
  and 
  

   summer, 
  but 
  dangers 
  on 
  every 
  side 
  already 
  menace 
  the 
  lesser 
  folk 
  of 
  the 
  underworld. 
  

   Spiders 
  crawl 
  about 
  on 
  the 
  lichened 
  granite 
  close 
  to 
  my 
  face 
  in 
  search 
  of 
  their 
  first 
  

   victim 
  ; 
  tiny 
  droseras 
  or 
  sundews 
  dot 
  the 
  moist 
  places, 
  their 
  diminutive 
  rosettes 
  

   sprinkled 
  thickly 
  with 
  the 
  poisoned 
  dew 
  of 
  death. 
  One 
  of 
  the 
  first 
  butterflies 
  shows 
  a 
  

   deep 
  gouge 
  in 
  a 
  hinder 
  wing 
  where 
  some 
  creature 
  has 
  snapped 
  at 
  it. 
  The 
  first 
  

   mosquitoes 
  and 
  black 
  flies 
  are 
  as 
  eager 
  for 
  my 
  blood 
  as 
  though 
  it 
  were 
  full 
  summer. 
  

  

  But 
  a 
  spirit 
  of 
  fun 
  is 
  not 
  absent. 
  Two 
  cock 
  pheasants 
  are 
  calling 
  to 
  one 
  another 
  

   with 
  sharp, 
  shrill 
  challenge 
  from 
  opposite 
  shoulders 
  of 
  a 
  tall 
  mountain. 
  To 
  me 
  they 
  are 
  

   invisible, 
  but 
  a 
  kite 
  soaring 
  slowly 
  past 
  apparently 
  has 
  them 
  both 
  in 
  his 
  eye. 
  He 
  can 
  

   do 
  them 
  no 
  harm. 
  He 
  knows 
  it 
  and 
  they 
  know 
  it. 
  Nevertheless 
  as 
  the 
  challenge 
  rises 
  

   from 
  one 
  knoll 
  he 
  swoops 
  close 
  down 
  as 
  if 
  with 
  deadly 
  intent 
  and 
  silences 
  the 
  bird. 
  

   Then 
  he 
  swings 
  around 
  and 
  across 
  the 
  hanging 
  valley, 
  and 
  with 
  a 
  scream 
  and 
  swift 
  rush 
  

   brushes 
  the 
  bamboo 
  tops 
  above 
  the 
  second 
  bird. 
  So 
  little 
  fear 
  have 
  the 
  pheasants 
  that 
  

   the 
  first 
  bird 
  begins 
  its 
  call 
  a 
  moment 
  after 
  the 
  kite 
  has 
  passed, 
  and 
  again 
  the 
  sheep 
  in 
  

   wolfs 
  clothing 
  silences 
  the 
  bird. 
  Never 
  once 
  is 
  his 
  onslaught 
  unsuccessful 
  as 
  far 
  as 
  

   putting 
  an 
  end 
  to 
  the 
  call. 
  The 
  century-old 
  fear 
  of 
  a 
  bird 
  of 
  prey 
  is 
  too 
  deep 
  to 
  be 
  

   altogether 
  eliminated, 
  although 
  the 
  pheasant 
  well 
  knows 
  this 
  pretender 
  to 
  be 
  a 
  mere 
  

   scavenger 
  — 
  a 
  low 
  caste 
  gleaner 
  of 
  dead 
  fish 
  and 
  refuse. 
  

  

  The 
  pitiful 
  apologies 
  for 
  trees 
  — 
  the 
  stripling 
  pines 
  scantily 
  dotting 
  the 
  slopes 
  — 
  

   impress 
  one 
  as 
  little 
  more 
  than 
  weeds, 
  and 
  their 
  flower-topped 
  twigs 
  at 
  this 
  season 
  

   detract 
  still 
  more 
  from 
  their 
  arboreal 
  appearance. 
  We 
  are 
  so 
  used 
  to 
  looking 
  upward 
  

   at 
  this 
  inflorescence 
  that 
  it 
  seems 
  some 
  strange 
  bloom, 
  wholly 
  new 
  to 
  us 
  on 
  these 
  dwarf 
  

   growths. 
  But 
  the 
  pines 
  which 
  had 
  sprouted 
  along 
  the 
  summits 
  of 
  the 
  ridges, 
  even 
  

   though 
  but 
  a 
  few 
  years 
  old, 
  have 
  already 
  attuned 
  their 
  scanty 
  tufts 
  of 
  needles 
  to 
  the 
  

   winds, 
  and 
  give 
  forth 
  a 
  true 
  piney 
  roar 
  — 
  as 
  of 
  distant 
  surf. 
  

  

  One 
  has 
  a 
  feeling 
  in 
  this 
  region 
  unlike 
  that 
  experienced 
  elsewhere. 
  In 
  our 
  own 
  

   north 
  country 
  the 
  spruces 
  and 
  pines 
  whisper 
  of 
  the 
  moose, 
  the 
  panther, 
  the 
  bear, 
  through 
  

  

  