156 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



cock, but its voice seems to have been borrowed from a 

 black-faced monkey. There are some strange oddities 

 among birds. This same crow-pheasant has a second or 

 third cousin called the koel, which deposits its eggs in the 

 nest of the crow, and has its young brought up by that 

 discreditable foster-parent. Now, this bird supposes that 

 it has a musical voice, and devotes the best part of the 

 night to vocal exercise, after the manner of the nightingale. 

 You may call it the Indian nightingale, if you like. There 

 is a difference, however, in its song, the burden of which 

 seems to be iv/io-are-you, ivho-are-yon, who-are-you, while 

 the tune is a crescendo scale running right through the 

 compass of the bird's voice. When it gets to the very top 

 of its pitch, its voice cracks, and there is an end of it, or 

 rather, there is not, for the persevering musician begins 

 again. You may wonder what pleasure it finds in this, but 

 why should any one conclude that it is seeking its own 

 pleasure and not rather ministering to ours? Does not 

 the Maratha novelist, dwelling on the delights of a spring 

 morning in an Indian village, tell how the air was filled 

 with the dulcet melody of the koel, the green parrot, and 

 the peacock ? 



I must pass by the rosy-breasted little minivet, with its 



