THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



others have not the same intelligence and character, they 

 all have merry voices and an unfailing supply of good 

 spirits, and this makes them the best of neighbours. What 

 an intolerable dulness would settle down upon the place if 

 the eternal wagging of their little tongues could be stopped ! 

 There is the hilarious bulbul plucking unwholesome berries, 

 and the turtledove, in the middle of the road, cooing its 

 devotion to a modest maiden, and the robin not redbreast 

 cocking its tail over its head with a melodious observa- 

 tion, and the plain tree-warbler, ever saying tick, like 

 "grandfather's clock," only at longer intervals. There is 

 also the golden oriole sometimes, and the harsh shrike 

 always, and the diminutive sunbird gleaming with purple 

 and green radiance, and earnestly twittering his feeble song 

 as he explores the flowers for nectar, or collects scraps for 

 his nest. The nest, which hangs from the end of a droop- 

 ing bough, is intended to pass for a bunch of miscellaneous 

 rubbish entangled in the remains of an old cobweb, and it 

 will pass for that with most people. Clear and loud above 

 all the voices of the concert sounds the to-wkee, to-zuhee, 

 to-whee, of the tailor-bird, a most plain-looking little greenish 

 thing, but a skilful workman and a very Bcaconsfield in the 

 matter of keeping its own counsel. Aided by its indus- 



