﻿ELLIOT'S 
  BARRED-BACKED 
  PHEASANT 
  191 
  

  

  the 
  past 
  years 
  ; 
  here, 
  in 
  this 
  apparent 
  wilderness, 
  it 
  is 
  mankind 
  of 
  which 
  we 
  think 
  ; 
  as 
  

   we 
  gaze 
  at 
  the 
  mountains 
  close-cropped 
  as 
  far 
  as 
  the 
  eye 
  can 
  see 
  ; 
  as 
  we 
  look 
  down 
  at 
  

   the 
  river 
  where 
  scores 
  of 
  sampans 
  comb 
  its 
  depths 
  for 
  any 
  small 
  fish 
  which 
  may 
  by 
  

   chance 
  have 
  escaped 
  the 
  myriad 
  meshes 
  spread 
  for 
  it 
  and 
  its 
  kindred 
  throughout 
  past 
  

   years. 
  

  

  One 
  must 
  look 
  at 
  this 
  country 
  from 
  a 
  wholly 
  new 
  point 
  of 
  view. 
  One 
  comes 
  looking 
  

   for 
  some 
  hint 
  of 
  real 
  wilderness, 
  and 
  when 
  at 
  last 
  one 
  realizes 
  that 
  such 
  is 
  not 
  to 
  be 
  

   found, 
  then 
  a 
  new 
  pleasure 
  can 
  be 
  taken 
  in 
  the 
  majestic 
  cliffs 
  and 
  noble 
  outlines. 
  But 
  

   to 
  do 
  this 
  one 
  must 
  sink 
  low 
  down 
  among 
  the 
  undergrowth 
  and 
  take 
  a 
  pheasant's-eye 
  

   view 
  of 
  life 
  to 
  see 
  the 
  forlorn 
  little 
  maples 
  and 
  pines 
  striving 
  to 
  rear 
  themselves 
  into 
  

   a 
  forest. 
  

  

  Even 
  the 
  prostrate 
  brakes 
  seem 
  doomed, 
  as 
  the 
  villagers 
  gather 
  thousands 
  of 
  

   bundles, 
  drying 
  them 
  for 
  some 
  kind 
  of 
  chow. 
  

  

  Such 
  the 
  stage. 
  Then 
  enter 
  the 
  actors. 
  The 
  ring-necked 
  pheasants 
  have 
  ceased 
  

   their 
  crowing, 
  the 
  kite 
  has 
  vanished 
  beyond 
  the 
  bend 
  of 
  the 
  river, 
  when 
  a 
  commotion 
  

   among 
  the 
  ferns 
  some 
  twenty 
  yards 
  away 
  draws 
  my 
  attention. 
  For 
  some 
  time 
  I 
  can 
  see 
  

   nothing 
  but 
  an 
  intermittent 
  shaking 
  of 
  the 
  fronds. 
  Then 
  the 
  scene 
  of 
  action 
  shifts 
  and 
  

   two 
  cock 
  pheasants 
  come 
  into 
  view, 
  an 
  Elliot 
  which 
  has 
  lost 
  its 
  two 
  longest 
  tail-feathers 
  

   and 
  a 
  ring-neck. 
  The 
  birds 
  are 
  sparring, 
  but 
  in 
  a 
  half-hearted 
  way, 
  and 
  between 
  bouts 
  

   they 
  peck 
  at 
  the 
  ground 
  or 
  leaves 
  in 
  a 
  self-conscious, 
  aimless 
  manner. 
  Twice 
  a 
  bird 
  

   leaps 
  completely 
  over 
  the 
  other, 
  landing 
  with 
  outspread 
  wings 
  upon 
  the 
  stiff 
  fern 
  fronds, 
  

   and 
  dropping 
  awkwardly 
  to 
  the 
  ground. 
  Then 
  the 
  Elliot 
  seems 
  to 
  tire 
  of 
  the 
  desultory 
  

   combat 
  and 
  goes 
  viciously 
  for 
  his 
  opponent 
  with 
  beak 
  and 
  spur. 
  The 
  ring-neck 
  at 
  once 
  

   recognizes 
  the 
  change 
  of 
  temper, 
  and, 
  after 
  a 
  single 
  feeble 
  attempt 
  at 
  retaliation, 
  turns 
  

   and 
  flicks 
  out 
  of 
  sight. 
  

  

  The 
  Elliot 
  preens 
  his 
  plumage, 
  then 
  gives 
  a 
  thorough 
  shaking 
  which 
  rearranges 
  

   every 
  feather 
  from 
  crown 
  to 
  tail 
  and 
  vibrates 
  his 
  wings 
  for 
  a 
  moment. 
  Coming 
  a 
  few 
  

   yards 
  nearer 
  he 
  scratches 
  lustily, 
  and 
  now 
  I 
  am 
  conscious 
  of 
  a 
  female 
  some 
  distance 
  

   away, 
  perfectly 
  protected 
  by 
  her 
  marbled 
  tints 
  except 
  when 
  she 
  too 
  begins 
  to 
  scratch 
  

   among 
  the 
  debris. 
  The 
  birds 
  work 
  nearer 
  to 
  each 
  other, 
  and 
  in 
  low 
  murmuring 
  chuckles 
  

   and 
  whispers 
  begin 
  to 
  chat 
  as 
  they 
  work. 
  

  

  The 
  male 
  interests 
  me 
  greatly. 
  Most 
  of 
  the 
  time 
  he 
  is 
  exceedingly 
  conspicuous 
  

   against 
  his 
  surroundings, 
  but 
  twice 
  when 
  he 
  is 
  close 
  to, 
  or 
  actually 
  among, 
  a 
  mass 
  of 
  red- 
  

   brown 
  leaves, 
  touched 
  up 
  by 
  the 
  silvery 
  under-sides 
  of 
  some 
  half-bent 
  ferns, 
  he 
  almost 
  

   vanishes, 
  although 
  in 
  full 
  sight. 
  The 
  first 
  time 
  he 
  is 
  moving 
  constantly, 
  and 
  so 
  easy 
  is 
  

   it 
  for 
  the 
  eye 
  to 
  follow 
  this 
  motion 
  that 
  only 
  by 
  half 
  shutting 
  my 
  eyes 
  can 
  I 
  fully 
  

   appreciate 
  the 
  excellent 
  approximation 
  of 
  colour 
  of 
  plumage 
  and 
  vegetation. 
  The 
  second 
  

   time 
  he 
  stands 
  motionless 
  for 
  several 
  seconds, 
  three-quarters 
  of 
  his 
  body 
  protruding 
  

   from 
  the 
  reddish 
  shrub, 
  and 
  dissolves 
  before 
  my 
  very 
  eyes, 
  disintegrating 
  into 
  grey 
  

   lichen, 
  silvery 
  fern 
  frond 
  and 
  coppery 
  foliage. 
  Then, 
  at 
  the 
  first 
  turn 
  of 
  his 
  head, 
  the 
  

   pheasant 
  reassembles 
  its 
  parts 
  to 
  my 
  eyes 
  and 
  steps 
  forth. 
  

  

  I 
  had 
  several 
  other 
  opportunities 
  of 
  watching 
  these 
  pheasants 
  under 
  diverse 
  

   conditions, 
  but 
  never 
  again 
  saw 
  even 
  an 
  approximation 
  to 
  close 
  protective 
  resemblance 
  

   on 
  the 
  part 
  of 
  the 
  male. 
  

  

  