THE BIRDS OF THE GARDEN. 



trious spouse, it will, when the monsoon comes on, spin 

 cotton, or steal thread from the durzee, and sew together 

 two broad leaves of the laurel in the pot on your very 

 doorstep, and when it has warmly lined the bag so formed 

 it will bring up therein a large family of little tailors, 

 without giving you the least intimation of its proceedings. 

 At present it is burdened with no such cares, but still it is 

 always busy, hopping from bush to bush, and prying with 

 its sharp eyes for spiders and little green caterpillars, 

 from morning to night seeking the means of its liveli- 

 hood, with just enough of motion and excitement in the 

 work to banish thought ! It would be difficult to conceive 

 a healthier or happier life, where the power of thought is 

 small. 



But, perpetually happy as a bird is, it is familiar with 

 narrow escapes, and never knows what an hour may bring 

 forth. How often, when all is going merry as a marriage 

 bell, does the shrill cry of a watchful rat-bird give warning 

 that death is at hand, and its fellows dart for their lives 

 into the grass, the little birds of all kinds rush into hiding, 

 the bush-quail lies still as a stone, and the parrots are away 

 on the wind, leaving a chain of shrieks behind them. Then, 

 silent and swift, the hawk glides up, perches on a branch, 



