THE EMERALD MEROPS 



IF I have a favourite bird it is the little green 

 bee-eater {Merops viridis). There is no winged 

 thing more beautiful or more alluring. More 

 showy birds exist, more striking, more gorgeous, 

 more magnificent creatures. With such the bee-eater 

 does not compete. Its beauty is of another order. It 

 is that of the moon rather than of the sun, of the 

 violet rather than of the rose. The exquisite shades 

 of its plumage cannot be fully appreciated unless 

 minutely inspected. Every feather is a triumph of 

 colouring. No description can do the bird justice. 

 To say that its general hue is the fresh, soft green of 

 grass in England after an April shower, that the head 

 is covered with burnished gold, that the tail is tinted 

 with olive, that a black collarette adorns the breast, that 

 the bill is black, that a streak of that colour runs from 

 the base of the beak, backwards, through the eye, which 

 is fiery red, that the feathers below this streak are of 

 the purest turquoise-blue, as are the feathers of the 

 throat — to say all this is to convey no idea of the 

 hundred shades of these colours, or the manner in 

 which they harmonise and pass one into another. Nor 

 is it easy for words to do justice to the shape of the 

 bird ; even a photograph fails to express the elegance 

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