1 88 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



by a king- crow or one of these strange birds the swallow- 

 shrikes (Artamus fuscus), which happened to be common 

 at that place. As each young adventurer drew itself 

 through the narrow gateway, arrayed like a bride in its 

 long gauze wings, it bade a tearful farewell to the friends 

 of its childhood, and, rising upon the breeze, started upon 

 the voyage of life. I do not know what rosy hopes were 

 at that moment blushing on the horizon of its young life, 

 but a king-crow shot from his station and wiped them all 

 out with one loud snap of its beak. In half a minute a 

 second rose on its feathery wings and sailed away towards 

 the sky, until a swallow-shrike seemed to glide over it, and 

 it disappeared. No beak snapped this time. The bird 

 just swept past with open mouth, and the ant was not. 

 My friend professed to hear a soft thud from inside the 

 bird, but I heard nothing. Thus, one after another, each 

 in happy ignorance of the fate of its predecessors, they 

 went forth to seek their fortunes, and the fortunes of all 

 were the same. I doubt if a single one came to a happy 

 end. 



Here am I, under the influence of a weak pity, talking 

 sentimentality about the death of white ants. What strange 

 creatures we are, and how seldom we can make room for 



