Last spring our lane was terrorized by a cock-pheasant. He would sit for hours in our front flower bed, watching and waiting, and then rush out whenever someone walked past, croaking in an outraged and provocative manner. Every car was followed at a desperate trotting pace, until he had escorted it safely off his territory; and he nearly caused several accidents up at the turning, when two cars came from opposite directions, and he dithered around trying to decide which to chase first.
But the people the pheasant considered as his particular adversaries were post-men. He liked to accompany them on their rounds, running along side them down the road, up every drive (where he would stand to one side in a gentlemanly manner while they posted the letters), and back down to the road again. One postman got so unnerved by this constant chaperonage that he seriously considered arming himself with a stout stick, in case the pheasant should one day forget his manners, and turn on him.
However, this spring has been a much more tame affair, with the pheasant mainly sticking to the back garden. When he has occasionally been round to the front, it is in a very self-effacing manner. Perhaps last year he was a hot-blooded teenager, and this year he begins to feel the dignity of his age..
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