In the keeper's year there is no moment so delightful as when he finds
his first wild pheasant's egg. The earliest egg of the season is looked
on almost like a nugget of gold. You may observe a keeper turning
out of his way to pass along the sunny side of a hedgerow favoured
by pheasants, craning his neck to look at the far side of a tuft of
withered grass, and with his stick turning over the dead leaves of a
likely hollow. Day after day, in early April, he perseveres in his
quest; and though he may find scores of depressions scooped out by the
hens--"scrapes" he calls them--it may be a long while before his search
is rewarded by the sight he yearns for. He is appeased--though he has
but found something found thousands of times before, only a pheasant's
egg. But it is the first of a new season, and precious beyond all
others. There may have been eggs already in his pens. The penned birds
are protected from wind and cold rains. They live on a well-drained
plot facing the south, and they are treated so liberally to rich foods,
spices, and tonic drinks that they can hardly help laying early. The
first egg is a satisfaction, but nothing like the first wild-laid egg.
At the earliest chance, the finder meets a brother keeper, and his
story of the finding loses nothing in the telling, while it gains a
good deal from the envy on the brother keeper's face.
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