THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



per diem. But birds let them alone. On the morning after 

 the first storm of the monsoon, as you walk through the 

 wet grass, a large orange and grey moth will often rise like 

 a quail before you. Scarcely has it left the grass, when, 

 from his watch-tower on a dead tree, like an arrow from a 

 bow, the king-crow is after it, and the loud snap of his beak 

 tells that he has missed the moth ! But he wheels as 

 quick as thought, and darts upon it a second time with 

 surer aim, and now, with the large fluffy morsel in his beak, 

 he is sailing leisurely back to his perch. But why does he 

 make no attempt to catch the many small butterflies which 

 flutter dreamily out of their sleeping-places, as you stir the 

 grass and shake the bushes ? The green bee-eater too, on 

 the telegraph-wire, does not seem to see the little orange- 

 tip travelling feebly across the field, but next moment it is 

 off in pursuit of a strong-winged bee. Perhaps the zigzag 

 snipe-like flight of butterflies makes it well-nigh impossible 

 to catch them, or else, because they have much wing and 

 little body, birds may have long since come to the con- 

 clusion that hunting them is " muckle cry and little W." 

 However that may be, they form no appreciable part of 

 the food of birds, and they have no other use that I know 

 of. They are only made to be looked at. And shall we 



