his equal and would maintain an obstinate fight with one hand until I

knocked him out of breath. Nothing kindled, his ire more than Baby’s

fingers trying to grasp him through the bars of his cage. He panted to

exterminate them. Poor Billy enjoyed the two principal conditions of

longevity — a good digestion and a small mind; but he got fits and died early.


Bill}' was a Red-Whiskered Bulbul, the species which an old naturalist

in a happ}' moment called Otocampsajocosa, under which name you will find

it in Jerdon. The common species of our garden is the Madras Bulbul, a

bird which is only a shade less sprightly than the Red-Whiskered, and to

my mind handsomer. Its whiskers are not red, but its head, crest and face

are glossy black, audits mantle is a fine smoky brown, the pale-edged feathers

making a pattern like the scales of a fish, and the whole effect accords with

the maxim of Polonius—


“ Thy dress the richest that thy purse can buy,


Bui not expressed in fancy.”


The only touch of fancy about it is the crimson seat of its trousers, and this

is the badge of all Bulbuls ; they must have a patch of bright colour on that

place. The Sind Bulbul wears it yellow. Another badge is the up-turned

crest, which expresses the gleeful heart. If you watch a canary, or any

other merry-souled bird, you will see that it smiles by erecting the feathers

on the top of its head. Now, by a natural law, the feathers which are con¬

stantly being erected are developed and grow upwards, and what was a

passing expression in the ancestor becomes a permanent feature in the

descendants. So every man who cultivates a grumbling disposition is

labouring to bequeath a sour face to his children. On the other hand, the

merry twinkling eye with which some men are born is nothing else than the

crystallized result of a thousand humorous thoughts in past generations.

This is my philosophy of evolution.


These crested Bulbuls are the true Bulbuls, but the family ramifies

into a great variety of birds more or less bulbuline in their dress and customs.

There is the White-browed Bulbul, a dingy-coloured bird which comes about

Bombay gardens and lets its feelings off every now and then in a spasmodic

rattle of sweetish notes, in which, however, I recognise the family voice. It

has attained to cheerfulness, but not to hilarity, and its head is only

beginning to get crested.


Then there is the cheerily fussy Yellow Bulbul, not a garden but a

forest bird. I estimate that it makes two-thirds of all the noise that is made

in these jungles. There is the rarer Black Bulbul also, and the Ruby-

throated Bulbul, and many others. I think good Dr. Jerdon goes too far in

including Iora among the Bulbuls. Lira is a bright little bird, but not a

Bulbul.


There is another bird which Jerdon calls the Green Bulbul, but he

admits that it is not a very near relation. By its form, its nest and its eggs

the Green Bulbul is an Oriole, but there is a difference depending on its

colour. Or perhaps its colour depends on the difference. Which is cause and

which effect, is a question on winch we have no information. Bird history

does not go back far enough. The thing which is evident is that, in the world

to-day, the Green Bulbul expresses quite a different idea from the Golden

Oriole. The latter is designed to be seen ; the former is designed to be

unseen. Who does not known the Golden Oriole, or Mango Bird ? It

cannot escape notice and does not try. Its loud mellow voice salutes the ear,

as its brilliant hues catch the eye. But how few know that there is such a

bird as the Green Bulbul ! Yet it is everywhere, hopping about among the

green leaves, unobserved, but observing everything and mocking all the

birds iu turn. First there is a King Crow calling cheerily in the tree just

over your head, but you look for it in vain; there is no King Crow in sight.

Suddenly it stops, and the fierce scream of the Sparrow Hawk takes its place ;

but where is the Sparrow Hawk? Iu a few minutes a Sunbird is twittering

just where the Sparrow Hawk must have been ; then two Sunbirds are

quarrelling. This is too absurd. You fling a stone into the branches and a



