THE SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT 
N 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 varia) hovers over the lake near 
by; little birds are singing in the greenwood tree; 
flocks of boisterous “green parrots” (Palgornis tor- 
guatus) hurry overhead, nor do they hush their shrill 
F 65 
