ORIOLES. 93 



of it you cannot mistake it. A little bird, like a 

 tomtit, in black and yellow, followed by its mate in 

 green and yellow, can be nothing else than the lora. 

 The nest of this bird is a beautiful piece of work, a 

 little cup, the size of a small after-dinner coffee cup, 

 compactly woven of fine fibres and bound all round 

 the outside with white cobwebs. A pair built in my 

 garden last August, in a little fork, embowered in 

 leaves, at the end of a low branch of a tree not four 

 yards from my verandah. He discovered the place 

 first, and with much low cheeping and flapping of his 

 wings, invited her to come and see it. She seemed 

 to approve, but could not quite make up her mind 

 for some days, though he often brought her in 

 and went through the funniest little pantomime to 

 show her what a cosy and delightful site he thought 

 it. At last she agreed and they set to work furnish- 

 ing, but so slyly did they come and go that I 

 could not watch the progress of the work. After 

 a week, however, I could see from one particular 

 point the finished nest. Another week and her tail 

 was projecting over the edge of it, and I knew 

 that two or three little speckled eggs were under her. 

 Every morning he would slip in and take her place, 

 while she went to stretch her wings and get a 

 little food. I was looking forward to the pleasure 

 of watching the upbringing of the family, but just 

 about the time when the eggs should have hatched, 

 some evil beast, or blackguard crow, found and 

 devoured them. That nest is now in my museum. 



Whatever the true affinities of the lora may be, 

 1 think there can be little question that the bird which 

 Jerdon calls the Green Bulbul (Phyttornis jerdoni) is 



