CHAPTER IV. 



Let me try to sketch an ornithological walk, any bright 

 Spring morning, in the land of Egypt. The rising sun is 

 bursting through a cluster of stately Palm trees, but it sheds 

 its light on no birds there, for the Palms, contrary to what 

 has been said by some, are not good trees for birds save 

 and except the moping Night Heron, who is now so sleepy 

 as to be indifferent to the presence of the arch-enemy, man ; 

 but in the line of Sont trees on the other side, a sparkling 

 flock of Beeeaters are celebrating their arrival by flashing 

 backwards and forwards in its rays, unmindful of the herds- 

 man and his flocks. In the midst of the grove stands the 

 village with its 150 inhabitants, who dwell in squalid houses 

 built of mud. They are the heavily-taxed and oppressed 

 fellaJiecn, the agricultural population of the country. Some 

 of them are smoking the long diibook ; others squat on 

 their hams and do nothing, or idly watch the laden women 

 returning home with GoolcJis of water on their heads. That 

 invariable accompaniment of every Egyptian village, a pond, 

 is now nearly dry, but a dainty Stilt Plover thinks there is 

 enough water to wade in, and I may here remark that I 

 never saw this bird avail itself of its unusual length of limb 

 for deep wading, preferring rather the shallows, for which 

 one would not imagine from its contour that it was so well 

 adapted. The yellow Pariah dogs, which have been eyeing 

 the strangers with a national hatred, no longer kept back 

 by their masters, rush furiously out, and their barking 

 quickly frightens the Stilt away. At the same time a 



