BULBULS. 
157 
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 his equal and would maintain an 
obstinate fight with my 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. 
Billy was a Red-Whiskered Bulbul, the species which 
an old naturalist in a happy moment called Otocampsa 
jocosa, under which name you will find it in Jerdon. The 
common species of our gardens 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, and its 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, 
But not expressed in fancy.” 
The only touch of fancy about it is the crimson seat of 
