THE BIRDS AT THE TANK: 167 



water before your eyes, like a Cheshire cat, leaving a 

 ripple instead of a grin. The Hubshee is checkmated now, 

 but I have another ally, whose deep brown form and white 

 forehead I see afar as it comes gliding along by the reedy 

 margin of the tank in search of a basking frog. It is the 

 marsh harrier, which thoughtless people shoot at because 

 it is too fond of carrying off a wounded teal when it can. 

 I discovered its value some time ago, and have encouraged 

 it since. Suddenly its sharp eyes discover something 

 among the rushes about thirty yards from where my gad- 

 wall vanished. It comes swiftly down, and drops on the 

 spot. A loud quaick and a splash ! It rises, circles slowly 

 round, and again plunges among the rushes at another 

 place. A third and fourth time it does the same, and then 

 it does not rise. The diving powers of the poor duck are 

 exhausted, and it is safe in the talons of the hungry 

 harrier. I have only to go round and put him up, and 

 seize my booty, which has just enough of life left to allow 

 Peer Khan to make it halal, by cutting its throat in the 

 name of Allah, and dividing the webs of its feet.* Poor 

 bird ! It seems a cruel end to come to. Yet the cruelty 



* See Leviticus xi. 3. 



