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small green bird gets out at the back of the tree and flits across to the next,

where the King Crow immediately begins to call. And all the time the

blackguard is setting quietly amongst the leaves, his head bent down and his

twinkling black eye enjoying the effect of his mockeries.


How is it that a bird so talented and dressed so superbly is never made

captive by man and put into his dungeons to make him sport ? When the

Bombay birdman comes round with his Canaries and Parrots and stupid

blue Java Sparrows and emaciated white mice, twirling away their weary

lives in little wire wheels, he has very often some odd bird that has fallen

into his hand by accident. In his cages I have found a Cuckoo, rescued from

vengeful crows, a Mango Bird, a Button Quail, even a Water Hen maimed

with a shot meant for duck or snipe, but never a Green Bulbul. I had long

set my heart on having one for a pet, and at last found a nest with two

young ones almost ready to fly. Birds meant to be reared by hand should

be taken at an earlier age, for their little wills develop with their plumage.

So I found mine very obstinate. They got it into their heads that the

nourishment I offered them was medicine, and would not open their mouths.

When a child is fractious in the same way, you can hold his nose and his

mouth must open, but Bulbuls have not tenable noses. However, I managed

to get a good quantity of food stuffs introduced into them one way or another;

but my birds pined, and 1 soon saw that they meant to die. The only thing

to do was to replace them in their cradle, where their parents made great

jubilation over them. Within two days, as I was walking in the garden, I

found one of them on the ground, in robust health and trying to fly. I took

him under my protection again, for I am abenevolent man and was sure the

crows would find him. This time I tried a different system. I got my

ingenious chupprassie, Yakoob Khan, to make a rough cage of bamboos, and

in this I hung my little Bulbul among the convolvulus which over-grewthe

verandah, where his parents could visit him and bring him dainties. This

they did all day. Now it was a soft green grasshopper, now a fat mantis,

with the leg, and hard parts stripped off. They made an absurd amount of

fuss, bo-peeping at me through the leaves and calling out to one another to

beware. I knew the}’ were trying to poison the innocent mind of their little

son against me. But I foiled their designs. I fed him when they were away

and treated him kindly and so completely won his confidence in a week that

I had only to whistle from any part of the house and he would answer me.

So all went well until one Sunday morning, when I was sitting reading and

my little pet was hanging in the verandah. Suddenly I heard shrieks of

agony from his cage, and rushing out found him with his back against the bars

and his wings stretched out, like a butterfly pinned to a board. I looked

behind, and there was the neck of a snake, stretched like a cord from the

trellis to the cage. The abominable reptile had insinuated its head between

the bars and caught the bird by the back, and was trying to drag it out. I

lifted my foot and gave it a frantic kick, which must have sent the snake

quite out of this world, for it was never seen again. Then I hastened to

examine my pet. His poor little back was flayed. The double row of small

sharp teeth on each side of the snake’s lank jaws had raked off both feathers

and skin. He revived towards evening and tried to look cheerful, but sank

and died next day.


I grieved for that Green Bulbul more than I generally do for lost pets.

I almost said,


“ Love not, love not; the thing’ you love shall die.”


But no ! I cannot accept that sentiment. It is moral imbecility. I believe

that the words of the clear-eyed and sound-hearted poet who has gone from

us are true of all bereavements, little and great —


“ I hold it true, whate’er befall,


And feel it when I sorrow most,


’Tis better to have loved and lost.


Than never to have loved at all.”



