A wise pheasant would go abroad before the middle of November. He would
leave the fallen beech-mast for the pigeons, and turn a deaf ear to
the persuasive whistling of the maize-laden keeper. Since the issue of
his death-warrant on October 1, the pheasant has fared well--he has
never known the want of a hearty breakfast. But sooner or later comes a
morning when he must breakfast on the remnants of a last good supper.
If he wonders why, he never thinks he has been denied his food because
a big breakfast is not good to fly on, because a full crop will lessen
his value in the eyes of the game-dealer, and because it is intended
that he shall fly high, and give a sporting shot. So he is kept short,
like a pig whose time has come to be made into pork. But no doubt even
his short life has been worth the living.
* * * * *