Pheasants' eggs vary strangely in shade: they show a much wider range
of shading than partridges', from almost white through the most
delicate gradations of blue-green and olive-brown to the rich, warm
hue of the nightingale's egg. The keeper prefers the eggs with the
deeper tones, persuading himself that they will produce the strongest
chicks. He has small faith in the fertility of eggs that are very light
in hue, and he holds to an idea that if a light, sky-blue egg hatches
at all it will produce a pied chick. When a hen lays in another's
nest, it is rather by some subtle distinction of shape than by colour
that the keeper discovers the trespasser's eggs: for the eggs of one
bird may vary much in shade. The nest is a simple affair, merely a
shallow hollow, scratched out, ringed by dry grass or leaves or any
dead material of the sort within easy reach; if dry grass is plentiful
a generous supply fringes the hollow, but a pheasant is not one to
trouble to fetch and carry for her nest. Cunning as she may be in the
choice of a site, no instinct or reason prompts her to go a yard away
to collect material, however plentiful at that short distance, for
comfort and warmth. Her fabric, plentiful or scanty, is arranged in
a typical fashion. Standing in the middle of her scraped-out hollow,
she throws the bits of grass or the leaves over her back, so that the
margin of the nest corresponds to the size of her body. Sometimes a
fowl is seen going through this performance; the goose also employs
this primitive instinctive manner of gauging her nest's dimensions.
All game-birds lay their eggs on the ground. Though pheasants are
peculiarly fond of perching in trees, by day as well as by night,
they rarely make a nest off the ground; though now and again one may
see a nest placed a few feet high in a tree, resting on a mattress of
ivy or on the ruins of other nests--the derelict homes of pigeons,
perhaps occupied later by squirrels. Pheasants will also sometimes make
use of those convenient hollows to be found on the top of underwood
stumps; and doubtless would do so more often if it were not for the
unyielding nature of wood, which they cannot scratch into shape as
instinct prompts. In rides where the old underwood stumps have not been
grubbed, pheasants love to nest on the stumps' tops. In spite of annual
trimming, the stumps for years continue to throw up a mass of leafy
shoots. The pheasant creeps between them, and is perfectly hidden--at
least, as to her head and body. We recall a nest in such a spot within
a foot of a path where many people passed daily. Not one discovered the
pheasant's secret, except a keeper who saw her protruding tail. The
pheasant had forgotten about her tail. Naturally the keeper was annoyed
at her stupidity in thinking that because her body was hidden her tail
could not be seen. Fearing lest others should discover the nest on this
account, he went for a pair of his wife's scissors, and made sure that
the tail would tell no more stories.
* * * * *