the cause of no end of rows, quarrels, avarice, cheating, and deceit. The

unsuccessful exhibitor is never satisfied with the judge’s decision, and

instead of admiring the prize winners he spends his time in finding fault

with them, trying to discover their imperfections, and making unfavourable

comparisons between, them and his own birds. There is probably not very

much down-right faking in the case of British and Foreign birds, except

with White Java .Sparrows, but there are plenty of little dodges, more or

less dishonest, and it is by no means always the best bird that wins.


I do not expect to live to see the day when bird shows will be a thing

of the past; but I do hope to see the day when aviculture will have com¬

pletely shaken off all connection with the “ fancy,” and that for which the

“ fancy ” exists, namely, Shows. It is hopeless to try to elevate and reform

the “fancy” the best way to treat the “ fancy ” is to ignore it, and perhaps in

time it will die out, both the name and the thing, which are equally hateful.



BULBULS. *


As pets Bulbuls come next to parrots, but not for their intelligence.

I believe their brain is small. A Bulbul has a lively and inquiring mind, and

can be taught amusing tricks, but it shows all the signs of little-headeduess.

The secret of its popularity is its vivacious temper and cheery disposition.

Bulbuls do more to keep the world lively than any other bird I know of.

They do not sing outside the pages of Lalla Rookh, but they have sweet voices

and light hearts, and they seem to bubble over with a happiness which is in¬

fectious. They are also easy pets to keep. If a bird’s food in its wild state

consists of insects only, then it is generally difficult to find an artificial sub-

stitute suited to its digestion ; but when a bird eats both inserts and fruit, as

the Bulbul does, then almost anything will agree with it. You may give it

meat, raw or cooked, bread crumbs, pudding, potatoes, fruit, or anything

that is going, and the greater the variety the better it will thrive. It is good,

however, to have some staple diet, some staff of life, and let the other things

be luxuries. For Bulbuls, Mynas and all miscellaneous feeding birds, I

believe there is no better regular food than parched gram made into fine

flour and moistened with water. I learned this from my friend the old bird-

man in Bomba) - , but he sometimes mixed the flour with ghee instead of water,

to oil the bird’s throat and make it sing sweetly !


Last year a young Bulbul was brought to me in a very dilapidated state.

Some native boy had found it. and, after the manner of native boys, had

carried it about swinging by a string tied to one leg. At least, I suppose

this was how it had been treated, for one leg was dislocated. I took the poor

bird in hand, not because I hoped to save its life, but because I am weak

about putting birds to death in cold blood even to end their misery. I did

save its life, however, and after a long while even the broken leg restored

itself in some way and became as sound as the other. In course of time a

new suit of clothes arrived, of Dame Nature’s best make, and my dingy little

cripple became a very stylish-looking bird, with a peaked, black crest on

the top of his head, a little patch of crimson over each ear, and another

display of red on what ornithologists euphemistically call the “ under tail

coverts.” The only thing that marred his beauty was a scar across the

bridge of his nose, which he made and kept fresh by frantic efforts to get out

between the bars of his cage whenever he was frightened.


As I have said, the Bulbul has a small brain, and this bird occupied a

strong cage for a year without finding out that dabbing his head against the

wires would not get him out. Neither did he attain to the knowledge that

a red handkerchief, a hat, and a hundred other common things, do not eat

Bulbuls. So he was seized with panic many times a day, and the place where

the wires caught him, just above the beak, was always bare and often raw.

Yet with his equals he was a bold and pugnacious bird. He accounted me



* Reprinted from “ A Naturalist on the Prowl,” by EHA, — by special permission kindly

given to the Avicultural Society by the publishers, Messrs. W. Thacker & Co., 87, Newgate

Street, E.C.



