THE VULTURES. it 



corrupt, everything in short but the bones, is to be 

 removed from that carcase within twenty-four hours, 

 and the vultures have taken the contract to do it. 

 Such work cannot be made artistic and the vulture is 

 not an sesthete. That bald head and bare neck are 

 not ornamental, but they mean business ; they are 

 the sleeves tucked up for earnest work. It is a merci- 

 ful and, I suppose, a necessary provision of nature, 

 that every creature gets reconciled to its task and is 

 able even to take pleasure in that which would be 

 painful to others. The vulture enjoys the full benefit 

 of this provision. It is in fact an enthusiast in its 

 profession, and these funeral wakes become scenes 

 of riotous and ghoulish glee to which I confess 

 that even philosophic reflection fails to impart moral 

 beauty. The gourmands jostle and bump against 

 each other, and chase each other round the board 

 with long, ungainly hop and open wings. One 

 has no sooner thrust its head well into the carcase 

 than another leaps upon its back with loud laughter. 

 Two get hold of opposite ends of a long strip of offal 

 and dance before each other with wings outstretched. 

 And the cackling and grunting and roaring that go 

 on all the while may be heard for half a mile. When 

 darkness overtakes the revellers some of them have 

 so shamefully over-eaten themselves that they cannot 

 rise from the ground and are forced to spend the 

 night where they are. They seem to be quite safe, 

 however. The jackal is not a fastidious feeder, but 

 it draws the line at vultures. These scenes used not 

 very long ago to be enacted regularly on the Flats, 

 where the carcases of horses and cattle were skinned 

 and left. 



