THE PHEASANT 
But for the first time the wood seemed dark 
and rather awful. Clucking uneasily, she 
sought a low laurel bush, 
the only flight which she 
could compass. It grew 
at an oblique angle, but 
clinging to it sideways 
the Yellow Pullet tucked 
her bill into her back- 
plumage contentedly, and 
forthwith forgot the dark- 
ness and the loneliness of 
the place. The night wind 
sang her lullaby as the 
young starshine shone up- 
on the wood. 
% # # 
She woke as she had awa- 
kened many mornings in 
the yard at Tonsella with 
the voice of the Pheasant 
in her ears : the world 
was grey with the conflicting light of the 
moonlight and the "false dawn," and the 
smell of dew was on the leaves. 
" Kock-up ! Rock-up ! Kock-kock ! " 
The Yellow Pullet jerked her head from her 
feathers, broad awake. This was the birthday 
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