THE SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT 



IN the Garden of India there is a little hillock of 

 which I wot a mound raised by the hand 

 of man from the great level plain. Upon the 

 summit stands the ruin of a Muhammadan tomb. 

 The white veneer of marble has fallen away, leaving 

 bare the cold greystone of the domed roof and the 

 crumbling bricks of the massive walls. The white 

 gown with which man clothed the building has been 

 swept away by Nature to be replaced by a garment 

 woven in her own loom a garment composed of 

 flowered weeds and soft green moss. Apart from its 

 ruined state, the solidity of the pile proves that it 

 belongeth not to this superficial age. 



Beneath the dome lie the ashes of some great 

 warrior, long since dead, whose very name seems to 

 have passed from the memory of man. His bones 

 lie neglected, for his whole race has died out. 



From the mound a panorama of the fertile plain 

 is obtained. Exuberant life is visible all around. A 

 pied kingfisher (ceryle varid) hovers over the lake near 

 by; little birds are singing in the greenwood tree; 

 flocks of boisterous "green parrots" (Palceornis tor- 

 quatus) hurry overhead, nor do they hush their shrill 

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