CHAPTER IV. 
LET me try to sketch an ornithological walk, any bright 
Spring morning, in the land of Egypt. The rising sun is 
bursting through a cluster of stately Palm trees, but it sheds 
its light on no birds there, for the Palms, contrary to what 
has been said by some, are not good trees for birds save 
and except the moping Night Heron, who is now so sleepy 
as to be indifferent to the presence of the arch-enemy, man; 
but in the line of Sont trees on the other side, a sparkling 
flock of Beeeaters are celebrating their arrival by flashing 
backwards and forwards in its rays, unmindful of the herds- 
man and his flocks. In the midst of the grove stands the 
village with its 150 inhabitants, who dwell in squalid houses 
built of mud. They are the heavily-taxed and oppressed 
JSellaheen, the agricultural population of the country. Some 
of them are smoking the long chibook; others squat on 
their hams and do nothing, or idly watch the laden women 
returning home with Goo/ehs of water on their heads. That 
invariable accompaniment of every Egyptian village, a pond, 
is now nearly dry, but a dainty Stilt Plover thinks there is 
enough water to wade in, and I may here remark that I 
never saw this bird avail itself of its unusual length of limb 
for deep wading, preferring rather the shallows, for which 
one would not imagine from its contour that it was so well 
adapted. The yellow Pariah dogs, which have been eyeing 
the strangers with a national hatred, no longer kept back 
by their masters, rush furiously out, and their barking 
quickly frightens the Stilt away. At the same time a 
