At harvest-time the old cock pheasants begin to show themselves in the
woods again. In April one grew almost weary of the insistent, boasting
crows of the vainglorious dandies. Then for months they seemed quite
to drop out of woodland society. They like to take things easily
through the summer, leaving all family cares to the members of their
harems. And no doubt they feel out of sorts, and have no desire to be
seen--for they have to pass through the strain of the moulting season.
As the last acre of the cornfield is cut, a hundred young pheasants
rise, with self-important splutterings, before the binders, each bird
clearly betraying its sex by the growing feathers of maturity. But
the cunning old cocks seldom advertise their presence. They slink
stealthily out of the field while the machines are making their first
rounds, and in a couple of yards from the corn reach the shelter of
the hedge. They steal away with lowered heads, as though to hide their
faces behind each blade of stubble. A dissipated, dishevelled old
ruffian the cock pheasant appears while moulting--with half a tail,
many flight feathers missing from the wings (corresponding feathers
drop out together from each wing, so that he is not deprived of power
of flight), and lacking all the metallic gloss of plumage, burnished
gold and bronze. To come suddenly on a moulting cock pheasant--as
when he is enjoying a quiet dust-bath--is to pity him. And the way he
blunders off suggests that he is heartily ashamed of himself.
* * * * *