THE BIRDS AT THE TANK. 



of its cage ; then suddenly it would stop short and nibble 

 at a piece of bread. 



To return once more to the tank: it is strange how little 

 all the shooting concerns those birds which know they are 

 not game. The coots and dabchicks are sailing peacefully 

 about, the splendid wire-tailed swallow is skimming along 

 over the water, the speckled kingfisher is hovering high in 

 air, as if nothing had happened, and every few minutes 

 dropping like a stone upon some fated fish. The strange 

 bottle-nests of the weaver birds, hanging in dozens where 

 the babul-trees droop over the water, seem to add to the 

 peacefulness of the scene, deserted as they are now by 

 their chattering proprietors. In grim contrast to the whole, 

 upon a low boundary-mark in the background sits a huge 

 imperial eagle, bolt upright, and almost too proud to get 

 out of the way for me. All through the season and for 

 many seasons that has been its morning station, and on 

 the ground around it are strewn bones and large white 

 feathers of herons or spoonbills, with a few bright rosy 

 plumes which may have adorned a luckless flamingo. 

 While I was contemplating all this, suddenly there was a 

 rushing sound in the air overhead, and a flock of duck 

 came down with such lightning speed that no gun could 



12 



