When returning from a Christmas morning perambulation last December I espied the colouration of a cock pheasant in the undergrowth no more than ten feet from the side of the road. Stepping back to try to get a better look and expecting the bird to dive deeper into the undergrowth I realised that this particular pheasant was not going to be spooked by my presence. It and one of its fellows were hanging from a low branch with a collar of orange twine joining them in their morbidity. I expect that some hunting and shooting chappie had bagged them and left them to hang for a few days before preparing them for the oven. Three days on the brace of pheasants were still swinging from their vegetative gallows. It was tempting to remove the ,"kill," from what is after all my property. Purely in the interests of tidiness as you will understand.