The Beautiful Birds of Autumn

  

Those Beautiful Birds of Autumn     Len Wilson         

Where have the pheasants gone? I remember long walks in the tall dry grass of autumn when, with no warning, these large birds would explode at my feet almost as if shot from a cannon. After the initial sensation of panic passed, I loved to watch those beautiful birds become airborne. Those flights told me fall was beginning. Now summer ends, but fall has no meaning for me.  As the trees change color and the green fades from the landscape, I miss the beauty of those special birds.  

            I am not a hunter, but even if I were, I don’t think I could harm such a beautiful bird, and neither would have my eldest brother if he had had the choice. But one day he did just that when he was about eleven or twelve. It was when we living on the highway in Whalley’s Corner, and Billy had landed a job on chicken farm up on Ferguson road. One day, this strange bird got amongst the flock of chickens, and had them all excited. Billy tried everything to chase that bird away, but it refused to leave. The chickens were running around with wings flapping, and Billy panicked. He picked up a rock and chucked it at the strange bird. Probably the only time in his life he ever hit what he was aiming at, he hit that poor bird right in the head. The bird fell over dead. With the realization that he had killed such a beautiful bird Billy was heartbroken.

            When the farmer’s wife arrived home, Billy in tears showed her what he had done. He felt even worse when she explained that although the pheasant roosts in trees it scratches for food in much the same way as chickens, and it is not uncommon for female pheasants to get amongst chickens. She also explained that the only reason the flock was so upset this time was because this one was a male. She cleaned it and sent it and the  long tail feathers home with my brother. I cannot recall whether Billy ate any of the meat, but I do remember that although I was only about seven, I enjoyed it very much, but what really fascinated me were the long colourful tail feathers that Billy kept for years.

Pheasants are not native to our area, but were actually imported years ago as game birds for hunters. Not all pheasants are the same, but I remember the hen as being about twenty-five inches long, brown in color with no special markings, but the cock was much larger, about thirty-five inches with long brown tail feathers barred with black. The ones I remember had a greenish blue head and neck with red wattles surrounding the eyes. They also had a pair of ear-like tufts protruding from the head. A white collar contrasted its brown plumage, which were marked with buff, black, and purple giving it the general effect of burnished copper.

             They would build their nests in the long grass, which protected it from flying enemies, but not from ground predators. Whenever it heard an approaching enemy it would silently scurry toward the intruder, and then with just the slightest rustle of the dry grass, it would virtually explode in a flurry of flapping wings. With this noise distracting its enemy, it became airborne reaching tremendous speed in record time. Once the predator had moved on it would return to its nest.

            Now as I walk my neighborhood streets, my heels click on concrete sidewalks, and the only birds I see are crows tearing at garbage and breaking hazelnuts on paved streets. Gone are the wooded areas, the green pastures and the fields of tall grass. Gone are the wild animals, gone are the farmer’s livestock and gone are my favorite birds ―the pheasants.