6



G. H. Edwards—Yorkshire Aviaries



motion of the tail coverts enacts a miniature blizzard. But surely a

cold background for his passion.


I am proud of my namesakes in pheasantdom, Gennaeus edwardsi.

They are not gaudy, but are perfect little creatures. The Edward’s

hen, softly brushed with the browns of autumn leaves, are not one whit

less attractive than the males, stained though they are a glossy whin-

berry purple. I think that shape and carriage count more than colour.

A shapely bird—oven if sombre—holds my attention far more than,

say, the multi-coloured, but heavily cross-bred Golden X Amherst

which has gained extra splashes of colour at the expense of the essentially

individual grace of its respective forbears.


I am opposed to crossing of species of varieties of species. The

argument that crosses have occurred in nature is no argument at all,

for this only happens through and by way of adaptation to the particular

environment of the species. If the cross is not adaptable, nature

exterminates ; but where the birds are man maintained, they live to

be sold and possibly pollute pure stock. I found in Mr. Lambert a

champion of keeping the species pure, and every bird I saw was un¬

mistakably pure.


There were a great number of young Pheasants at NawTon. I passed

pen after pen of young stock—the strongest testimony to Mr. Lambert’s

rearing methods—sturdy young Cheers, alert young Tragopans ; in

fact, all the poults were full of health.


Dawn begins early at Nawton. Long before the sky showed any

tinge of grey, I awoke. A strong wind was causing the leaves of the

climber about the window to play cymbals of rustling sounds, inter¬

spersed with an occasional wistful note, the whistling cry of what

I subsequently discovered to be Oyster Catchers, Haematopus ostralegus.

Lapwings, Vanellus cristatus —spirit of the marshes—added their

wailing peewit, as I saw the square of sky greying, and then the dawn

chorus began in earnest; first a wilding—a Robin—nearby, then the

faint wheep, wheep, of a male or female Impeyan away over in the

pheasantries, and the more sonorant chir-r-pah of the Cheer.


I was almost in the lap of Morpheus again, browsing in the medley

of these delightful early morning sounds, when mine, host brought me



