Birds of the Indian Hills 4

	Birds of the Indian Hills 4

79. _Aceros nepalensis_. The rufous-necked hornbill. In this species the casque or excrescence on the upper mandible is very slight. It is a large bird 4 feet long, with a tail of 18 inches and a beak of 8½ inches. The hen is wholly black, save for a little white in the wings and tail. In the cock the head, neck, and lower parts are bright reddish brown. The rest of his plumage is black and white. In both sexes the bill is yellow with chestnut grooves. The naked skin round the eye is blue, and that of the throat is scarlet. The call of this species is a deep hoarse croak. THE CYPSELIDÆ OR SWIFT FAMILY 80. _Cypselus affinis_. The common Indian swift. 81. _Chætura nudipes_. The white-necked spine-tail. A black bird glossed with green, having the chin, throat, and front and sides of the neck white. THE CUCULIDÆ OR CUCKOO FAMILY 82. _Cuculus canorus_. The common or European cuckoo. 83. _Cuculus saturatus_. The Himalayan cuckoo. 84. _Cuculus poliocephalus_. The small cuckoo. This is very like the common cuckoo in appearance, but it is considerably smaller. Its loud unmusical call has been syllabised _pichu-giapo_. 85. _Cuculus micropterus_. The Indian cuckoo. 86. _Hierococcyx varius_. The common hawk-cuckoo. 87. _Hierococcyx sparverioides_. The large hawk-cuckoo. THE PSITTACIDÆ OR PARROT FAMILY 88. _Palæornis schisticeps_. The slaty-headed paroquet. This bird is not nearly so common in the Eastern as in the Western Himalayas. THE STRIGIDÆ OR OWL FAMILY 89. _Glaucidium brodei_. The collared pigmy owlet. 90. _Syrnium indrani_. The brown wood-owl. 91. _Scops spilocephalus_. The spotted Himalayan scops owl. THE VULTURIDÆ OR VULTURE FAMILY 92. _Gyps himalayensis_. The Himalayan griffon. 93. _Pseudogyps bengalensis_. The white-backed vulture. THE FALCONIDÆ OR FAMILY OF BIRDS OF PREY 94. _Aquila helica_. The imperial eagle. 95. _Hieraetus fasciatus_. Bonelli's eagle. 96. _Ictinaetus malayensis_. The black eagle. This is easily recognised by its dark, almost black, plumage. 97. _Spilornis cheela_. The crested serpent eagle. 98. _Milvus govinda_. The common pariah kite. 99. _Tinnunculus alaudaris_. The kestrel. THE COLUMBIDÆ OR DOVE FAMILY 100. _Sphenocercus sphenurus_. The kokla green-pigeon. 101. _Turtur suratensis_. The spotted dove. 102. _Macropygia tusalia_. The bar-tailed cuckoo-dove. THE PHASIANIDÆ OR PHEASANT FAMILY 103. _Gennæus leucomelanus_. The Nepal kalij pheasant. This is the only pheasant at all common about Darjeeling. It is distinguished from the white-crested kalij pheasant by the cock having a glossy blue-black crest. The hens of the two species resemble one another closely in appearance. 104. _Coturnix communis_. The grey quail. 105. _Arboricola torqueola_. The common hill partridge. 106. _Francolinus vulgaris_. The black partridge. Fairly common at elevations below 4000 feet. THE CHARADRIIDÆ OR PLOVER FAMILY 107. _Scolopax rusticola_. The woodcock. In the summer this bird is not likely to be seen below altitudes of 8000 feet above the sea-level. _TITS AT WORK_ The average Himalayan house is such a ramshackle affair that it is a miracle how it holds together. The roof does not fit properly on to the walls, and in these latter there are cracks and chinks galore. Perhaps it is due to these defects that hill houses do not fall down more often than they do. Thanks to their numerous cracks they do not offer half the resistance to a gale of wind that a well-built house would. Be this as it may, the style of architecture that finds favour in the hills is quite a godsend to the birds, or rather to such of the feathered folk as nestle in holes. A house in the Himalayas is, from an avian point of view, a maze of nesting sites, a hotel in which unfurnished rooms are always available. The sparrow usually monopolises these nesting sites. He is a regular dog-in-the-manger, for he keeps other birds out of the holes he himself cannot utilise. However, the sparrow is not quite ubiquitous. In most large hill stations there are more houses than he is able to monopolise. I recently spent a couple of days in one of such, in a house situated some distance from the bazaar, a house surrounded by trees. Two green-backed tits (_Parus monticola_) were busy preparing a nursery for their prospective offspring in one of the many holes presented by the building in question. This had once been a respectable bungalow, surrounded by a broad verandah. But the day came when it fell into the hands of a boarding-house keeper, and it shared the fate of all buildings to which this happens. The verandahs were enclosed and divided up by partitions, to form, in the words of the advertisement, "fine, large, airy rooms." There can be no doubt as to their airiness, but captious persons might dispute their title to the other epithets. A _kachcha_ verandah had been thrown out with a galvanised iron roof and wooden supporting pillars. The subsequently-added roof did not fit properly on to that of the original verandah, and there was a considerable chink between the beam that supported it and the wall that enclosed the old verandah, so that the house afforded endless nesting sites. An inch-wide crack is quite large enough to admit of the passage of a tit; when this was negotiated the space between the old and the new roof afforded endless possibilities. Small wonder, then, that a pair of tits had elected to nest there. The green-backed tit is one of the most abundant birds in the Himalayas. It is about the size of a sparrow. The head is black with a small perky crest. The cheeks are spotless white. The back of the head is connected by a narrow black collar with an expansive shirtfront of this hue. The remainder of the plumage is bright yellow. The back is greenish yellow, the rest of the plumage is slaty with some dashes of black and white. Thus the green-backed tit is a smart little bird. It is as vivacious as it is smart. It constantly utters a sharp, not unpleasant, metallic dissyllabic call, which sounds like _kiss me_, _kiss me_, _kiss me_, _kiss me_. This is one of the most familiar of the tunes that enliven our northern hill stations. So much for the bird: now for its nest. A nest in a hole possesses many advantages. Its preparation does not entail very much labour. It has not to be built; it merely needs furnishing, and this does not occupy long if the occupiers have Spartan tastes. The tits in question were luxuriously inclined, if we may judge by the amount of moss that they carried into that hole. By the time it was finished it must have been considerably softer than the bed that was provided for my accommodation! Moss in plenty was to be had for the taking; the trunks and larger branches of the trees which surrounded the "hotel" were covered with soft green moss. The tits experienced no difficulty in ripping this off with the beak. The entrance to the nest hole faced downwards and was guarded on one side by the wall of the house, and on the other by a beam, so that it was not altogether easy of access even to a bird. Consequently a good deal of the moss gathered by the tits did not reach its destination; they let it fall while they were negotiating the entrance. When a piece of moss dropped from the bird's beak, no attempt was made to retrieve it, although it only fell some 10 feet on to the floor of the verandah. In this respect all birds behave alike. They never attempt to reclaim that which they have let fall. A bird will spend the greater part of half an hour in wrenching a twig from a tree: yet, if this is dropped while being carried to the nest, the bird seems to lose all further interest in it. By the end of the first day's work at the nest, the pair of tits had left quite a respectable collection of moss on the floor. This was swept away next morning. On the second day much less was dropped; practice had taught the tits how best to enter the nest hole. It will be noticed that I speak of "tits." I believe I am correct in so doing; I think that both cock and hen work at the nest. I cannot say for certain, for I am not able to distinguish a lady- from a gentleman-tit. I never saw them together at the nest, but I noticed that the bird bringing material to it sometimes flew direct from a tree and at others alighted on the projecting end of a roof beam which the carpenters had been too lazy to saw off. It is my belief that the bird that used to alight on the beam was not the same as the one that flew direct from the tree. Birds are creatures of habit. If you observe a mother bird feeding her young, you will notice that she, when not disturbed, almost invariably approaches the nest in a certain fixed manner. She will perch, time after time, on one particular branch near the nest, and thence fly to her open-mouthed brood. When both parents bring food to the nest, each approaches in a way peculiar to itself; the hen will perhaps always come in from the left and the cock from the right. The tits in question worked spasmodically at the nest throughout the hours of daylight. For ten minutes or so they would bring in piece after piece of moss at a great pace and then indulge in a little relaxation. All work and no play makes a tit a dull bird. I had to leave the hotel late on the second day, so was not able to follow up the fortunes of the two little birds. I have, however, to thank them for affording me some amusement and giving me pleasant recollections of the place. It was good to lounge in a long chair, drink in the cool air, and watch the little birds at work. I shall soon forget the tumble-down appearance of the house, its seedy furniture, its coarse durries, and its hard beds, but shall long remember the great snow-capped peaks in the distance, the green moss-clad trees near about, the birds that sang in these, the sunbeams that played among the leaves, and, above all, the two little tits that worked so industriously at their nest. _THE PEKIN-ROBIN_ This is not a robin, nor does it seem to be nearly related to the familiar redbreast; Pekin- or China-robin is merely the name the dealers give it, because a great many specimens are imported from China. Its classical name is _Liothrix lutea_. Oates calls it the red-billed liothrix. It is a bird about the size of a sparrow. The prevailing hue of the upper plumage is olive green, but the forehead is yellow. There is also a yellow ring round the eye, and the lower parts are of varying shades of this colour. Some of the wing feathers are edged with yellow and some with crimson, so that the wings, when closed, look as though lines of these colours are pencilled upon them. Oates, I notice, states that the hen has no red in the wing, but this does not seem to be the case in all examples. In the Pekin-robins that hail from China the chief difference between the sexes is that the plumage of the hen is a little duller than that of the cock. The bill is bright red. It is thus evident that the _liothrix_ is a handsome bird, its beauty being of the quiet type which bears close inspection. But the very great charm of this sprightly little creature lies, not so much in its colouring, as in its form and movements. Its perfect proportions give it a very athletic air. In this respect it resembles the nimble wagtails. Next to these I like the appearance of the Pekin-robin better than that of any other little bird. Finn bestows even greater praise upon it, for he says: "Altogether it is the most generally attractive small bird I know of--everyone seems to admire it." There is no bird more full of life. When kept in a cage, Pekin-robins hop from perch to perch with extraordinary agility, seeming scarcely to have touched one perch with their feet before they are off to another. I am inclined to think that the _liothrix_, like Camilla, Queen of the Volscians, could trip across a field of corn without causing the blades to move. This truly admirable bird is a songster of no mean capacity. Small wonder, then, that it has long been a favourite with fanciers. Moreover, it stands captivity remarkably well. It is the only insectivorous bird which is largely exported from India. So hardy is it that Finn attempted to introduce it into England, and with this object set free a number of specimens in St. James's Park some years ago, but they did not succeed in establishing themselves, although some individuals survived for several months. The English climate is to Asiatic birds much what that of the West Coast of Africa is to white men. J. K. Jerome once suggested that Life Insurance Companies should abolish the application form with its long list of queries concerning the ailments of the would-be insurer, his parents, grandparents, and other relatives, and substitute for it the German cigar test. If, said he, the applicant can come up smiling immediately after having smoked a German cigar, the Company could be certain that he was "a good life," to use the technical term. As regards birds, the survival of an English winter is an equally efficient test. The Pekin-robin is a very intelligent little bird. Finn found that it was not deceived by the resemblance between an edible and an unpalatable Indian swallow-tailed butterfly, although the sharp king-crow was deceived by the likeness. Those Anglo-Indians who wish to make the acquaintance of the bird must either resort to some fancier's shop, or hie themselves to the cool heights of Mussoorie, or, better still, of Darjeeling, where the _liothrix_ is exceptionally abundant. But even at Darjeeling the Pekin-robin will have to be looked for carefully, for it is of shy and retiring habits, and a small bird of such a disposition is apt to elude observation. In one respect the plains (let us give even the devil his due) are superior to the hills. The naturalist usually experiences little difficulty in observing birds in the sparsely-wooded flat country, but in the tree-covered mountains the feathered folk often require to be stalked. If you would see the Pekin-robin in a state of nature, go to some clearing in the Himalayan forest, where the cool breezes blow upon you direct from the snows, whence you can see the most beautiful sight in the world, that of snow-capped mountains standing forth against an azure sky. Tear your eyes away from the white peaks and direct them to the low bushes and trees which are springing up in the clearing, for in this you are likely to meet with a small flock of Pekin-robins. You will probably hear them before you see them. The sound to listen for is well described by Finn as "a peculiar five-noted call, _tee-tee-tee-tee-tee_." As has been stated already, most, if not all, birds that go about in flocks in wooded country continually utter a call note, as it is by this means that the members of the flock keep together. Jerdon states that the food of the _liothrix_ consists of "berries, fruit, seeds, and insects." He should, I think, have reversed the order of the bird's menu, for it comes of an insectivorous family--the babblers--and undoubtedly is very partial to insects--so much so that Finn suggests its introduction into St. Helena to keep them down. At the nesting season, in the early spring, the flock breaks up into pairs, which take upon themselves what Mr. E. D. Cuming calls "brow-wrinkling family responsibilities," and each pair builds in a low bush a cup-shaped nest. _BLACK BULBULS_ All passerine birds which have hairs springing from the back of the head, and of which the tarsus--the lower half of the leg--is shorter than the middle toe, plus its claw, are classified by scientific men as members of the sub-family Brachypodinæ, or Bulbuls. This classification, although doubtless unassailable from the standpoint of the anatomist, has the effect of bringing together some creatures which can scarcely be described as "birds of a feather." The typical bulbul, as exemplified by the common species of the plains--Molpastes and Otocompsa--is a dear, meek, unsophisticated little bird, the kind of creature held up in copy-books as an example to youth, a veritable "Captain Desmond, V.C." Bulbuls of the nobler sort pair for life, and the harmony of their conjugal existence is rarely marred by quarrels; they behave after marriage as they did in the days of courtship: they love to sit on a leafy bough, close up against one another, and express their mutual admiration and affection by means of a cheery, if rather feeble, lay. They build a model nest in which prettily-coloured eggs are deposited. These they make but little attempt to conceal, for they are birds without guile. But, alas, their artlessness often results in a rascally lizard or squirrel eating the eggs for his breakfast. When their eggs are put to this base use, the bulbuls, to quote "Eha," are "sorry," but their grief is short-lived. Within a few hours of the tragedy they are twittering gaily to one another, and in a wonderfully short space of time a new clutch of eggs replaces the old one. If this shares the fate of the first set, some more are laid, so that eventually a family of bulbuls hatches out. Such is, in brief, the character of the great majority of bulbuls; they present a fine example of rewarded virtue, for these amiable little birds are very abundant; they flourish like the green bay tree. As at least one pair is to be found in every Indian garden, they exemplify the truth of the saying, the meek "shall inherit the earth," and give a new meaning to the expression, "the survival of the fittest." There are, however, some bulbuls which are so unlike the birds described above that the latter might reasonably deny relationship to them as indignantly as some human beings decline to acknowledge apes and monkeys as poor relations. As we have seen, most bulbuls are inoffensive, respectable birds, that lead a quiet, domesticated life. The cock and hen are so wrapped up in one another as to pay little heed to the outer world. Not so the black bulbuls. These are the antithesis of everything bulbuline. They are aggressive, disreputable-looking creatures, who go about in disorderly, rowdy gangs. The song of most bulbuls consists of many pleasant, blithe tinkling notes; that of the black bulbul, or at any rate of the Himalayan black bulbul, is scarcely as musical as the bray of the ass. Most bulbuls are pretty birds and are most particular about their personal appearance. Black bulbuls are as untidy as it is possible for a bird to be. The two types of bulbul stand to one another in much the same relationship as does the honest Breton peasant to the inhabitant of the Quartier Latin in Paris. Black bulbuls belong to the genus _Hypsipetes_. Three species occur in India--the Himalayan (_H. psaroides_), the Burmese (_H. concolor_), and the South Indian (_H. ganeesa_). All three species resemble one another closely in appearance. Take a king-crow (_Dicrurus ater_), dip his bill and legs in red ink, cut down his tail a little, dust him all over so as to make his glossy black plumage look grey and shabby, ruffle his feathers, apply a little _pomade hongroise_ to the feathers on the back of his head, and make some of them stick out to look like a dilapidated crest, and you may flatter yourself that you have produced a very fair imitation of a black bulbul as it appears when flitting about from one tree summit to another. Closer inspection of the bird reveals the fact that "black" is scarcely the right adjective to apply to it. Dark grey is the prevailing hue of its plumage, with some black on the head and a quantity of brown on the wings and tail. The Himalayan species has a black cheek stripe, which the other forms lack; but it is quite unnecessary to dilate upon these minute differences. I trust I have said sufficient to enable any man, woman, or suffragette to recognise a noisy black bulbul, and, as the distribution of each species is well defined and does not overlap that of the other species, the fact that a bird is found in any particular place at once settles the question of its species. The South Indian bird occurs only in Ceylon and the hills of South-west India; hence Jerdon called this species the Nilgiri or Ghaut black bulbul. Men of science in their wisdom have given the Himalayan bird the sibilant name of _Hypsipetes psaroides_. The inelegance of the appellation perhaps explains why the bird has been permitted to retain it for quite a long while unchanged. I have been charged with unnecessarily making fun of ornithological nomenclature. As a matter of fact, I have dealt far too leniently with the peccadillos of the ornithological systematist. Recently a book was published in the United States entitled _The Birds of Illinois and Wisconsin_. Needless to state that while the author was writing the book, ornithological terminology underwent many changes; but the author was able to keep pace with these and with those that occurred while the various proofs were passing through the press. It was after this that his real troubles began. Several changes took place between the interval of the passing of the final proof and the appearance of the book, so that the unfortunate author in his desire to be up to date had to insert in each volume a slip to the effect that the American Ornithologists' Union had in the course of the past few days changed the name of no fewer than three genera; consequently the genus Glaux had again become Cryptoglaux, and the genera Trochilus and Coturniculus had become, respectively, Archilochus and Ammodramus! But we are wandering away from our black bulbuls. The hillmen call the Himalayan species the _Ban Bakra_, which means the jungle goat. Why it should be so named I have not an idea, unless it be because the bird habitually "plays the goat!" Black bulbuls seem never to descend to the ground; they keep almost entirely to the tops of lofty trees and so occur only in well-wooded parts of the hills. When the rhododendrons are in flower, these birds partake very freely of the nectar enclosed within their crimson calyces. Now, I am fully persuaded that the nectar of flowers is an intoxicant to birds, and of course this will account, not only in part for the rowdiness of the black bulbuls, but for the pugnacity of those creatures, such as sunbirds, which habitually feed upon this stimulating diet. Black bulbuls, like sunbirds, get well dusted with pollen while diving into flowers after nectar, and so probably act the part of insects as regards the cross-fertilisation of large flowers. In respect of nesting habits, black bulbuls conform more closely to the ways of their tribe than they do in other matters. The nesting season is early spring. The nursery, which is built in a tree, not in a bush, is a small cup composed largely of moss, dried grass, and leaves, held together by being well smeared with cobweb. The eggs have a pink background, much spotted with reddish purple. They display a great lack of uniformity as regards both shape and colouring. _A WARBLER OF DISTINCTION_ So great is the number of species of warbler which either visit India every winter or remain always in the country, so small and insignificant in appearance are these birds, so greatly do they resemble one another, and so similar are their habits, that even the expert ornithologist cannot identify the majority of them unless, having the skin in one hand and a key to the warblers in the other, he sets himself thinking strenuously. For these reasons I pay but little attention to the warbler clan. Usually when I meet one of them, I am content to set him down as a warbler and let him depart in peace. But I make a few exceptions in the case of those that I may perhaps call warblers of distinction--warblers that stand out from among their fellows on account of their architectural skill, their peculiar habits, or unusual colouring. The famous tailor-bird (_Orthotomus sartorius_) is the best known of the warblers distinguished on account of architectural skill. As a warbler of peculiar habits, I may cite the ashy wren-warbler (_Prinia socialis_), which, as it flits about among the bushes, makes a curious snapping noise, the cause of which has not yet been satisfactorily determined. As warblers of unusual colouring, the flycatcher-warblers are pre-eminent. In appearance these resemble tits or white-eyes rather than the typical quaker-like warblers. _Cryptolopha xanthoschista_ and Hodgson's grey-headed flycatcher-warbler are the names that ornithologists have given to a very small bird. But, diminutive though he be, he is heard, if not seen, more often than any other bird in all parts of the Western Himalayas. It is impossible for a human being to visit any station between Naini Tal and Murree without remarking this warbler. It is no exaggeration to state that the bird's voice is heard in every second tree. Oates writes of the flycatcher-warblers, "they are not known to have any song." This is true or the reverse, according to the interpretation placed on the word "song." If song denotes only sweet melodies such as those of the shama and the nightingale, then indeed flycatcher-warblers are not singers. Nevertheless they incessantly make a joyful noise. I can vouch for the fact that their lay is heard all day long from March to October. Before attempting to describe the familiar sound, I deem it prudent to recall to the mind of the reader the notice that once appeared in a third-rate music-hall:--"The audience are respectfully requested not to throw things at the pianist. He is doing his best." To say that this warbler emits incessantly four or five high-pitched, not very musical notes, is to give but a poor rendering of his vocal efforts, but it is, I fear, the best I can do for him. He is small, so that the volume of sound he emits is not great, but it is penetrating. Even as the cheery lay of the _Otocompsa_ bulbuls forms the dominant note of the bird chorus in our southern hill stations, so does the less melodious but not less cheerful call of the flycatcher-warblers run as an undercurrent through the melody of the feathered choir of the Himalayas. In what follows I shall speak of Hodgson's grey-headed flycatcher-warbler as our hero, because I shrink from constant repetition of his double double-barrelled name. I should prefer to give him Jerdon's name, the white-browed warbler, but for the fact that there are a score or more other warblers with white eyebrows. Our hero is considerably smaller than a sparrow, being only a fraction over four inches in length, and of this over one-third is composed of tail. The head and neck are grey, the former being set off by a cream-coloured eyebrow. Along the middle of the head runs a band of pale grey; this "mesial coronal band," as Oates calls it, is far more distinct in some specimens than in others. The remainder of the upper plumage is olive green, and the lower parts are bright yellow. Coloured plate, No. XX, in Hume and Henderson's _Lahore to Yarkand_, contains a very good reproduction of the bird. The upper picture on the plate represents our hero, the lower one depicting an allied species, Brook's grey-headed flycatcher-warbler (_C. Jerdoni_). It is necessary to state this because the book in question was written in 1873, since when, needless to say, the scientific names of most birds have undergone changes. The plate in question also demonstrates the slenderness of the foundation upon which specific differences among warblers rest. Our hero is an exceedingly active little bird. He is ever on the move, and so rapid are his movements that to watch him for any length of time through field-glasses is no mean feat. He and his mate, with perhaps a few friends, hop about from leaf to leaf looking for quarry, large and small. The manner in which he stows away a caterpillar an inch long is a sight for the gods! Sometimes two or three of these warblers attach themselves, temporarily at any rate, to one of those flocks, composed mainly of various species of tits and nuthatches, which form so well-marked a feature of all wooded hills in India. Hodgson's warblers are pugnacious little creatures. Squabbles are frequent. It is impossible to watch two or three of them for long without seeing what looks like one tiny animated golden fluff ball pursuing another from branch to branch and even from tree to tree. The breeding season lasts from March to June. The nest is globular in shape, made of moss or coarse grass, and lined with some soft material, such as wool. The entrance is usually at one side. The nest is placed on a sloping bank at the foot of a bush, so that it is likely to escape observation unless one sees the bird flying to it. Three or four glossy white eggs are laid. Many years ago Colonel Marshall recorded the case of a nest at Naini Tal "at the side of a narrow glen with a northern aspect and about four feet above the pathway, close to a spring from which my _bhisti_ daily draws water, the bird sitting fearlessly while passed and repassed by people going down the glen within a foot or two of the nest." At the same station I recently had a very different experience. Some weeks ago I noticed one of these warblers fly with a straw in its beak to a place on a steep bank under a small bush. I could not see what it was doing there, but in a few seconds it emerged with the bill empty. Shortly afterwards it returned with another straw. Having seen several pieces of building material carried to the spot, I descended the bank to try to find the nest. I could find nothing; the nest was evidently only just commenced. I then went back to the spot from which I had been watching the birds, but they did not return again. I had frightened them away. Individual birds of the same species sometimes differ considerably in their behaviour at the nesting season. Some will desert the nest on the slightest provocation, while others will cling to it in the most quixotic manner. It is never safe to dogmatise regarding the behaviour of birds. No sooner does an ornithologist lay down a law than some bird proceeds to break it. _THE SPOTTED FORKTAIL_ "Striking" is, in my opinion, the correct adjective to apply to the spotted forktail (_Henicurus maculatus_). Like the paradise flycatcher, it is a bird which cannot fail to obtrude itself upon the most unobservant person, and, once seen, it is never likely to be forgotten. I well remember the first occasion on which I saw a spotted forktail; I was walking down a Himalayan path, alongside of which a brook was flowing, when suddenly from a rock in mid-stream there arose a black-and-white apparition, that flitted away, displaying a long tail fluttering behind it. The plumage of this magnificent bird has already been described. As was stated above, this species is often called the hill-wagtail. The name is not a particularly good one, because wagtails proper occur in the Himalayas. The forktail, however, has many of the habits of the true wagtail. I was on the point of calling it a glorified wagtail, but I refrain. Surely it is impossible to improve upon a wagtail. In India forktails are confined to the Himalayas and the mountainous parts of Burma. There are no fewer than eight Indian species, but I propose to confine myself to the spotted forktail. This is essentially a bird of mountain streams. It is never found far from water, but occurs at all altitudes up to the snow-line, so that, as Jerdon says, it is one of the characteristic adjuncts of Himalayan scenery. Indeed I know of few things more enjoyable than to sit, when the sun is shining, on the bank of a well-shaded burn, and, soothed by the soft melody of running water, watch the forktails moving nimbly over the boulders and stones with fairy tread, half-flight half-hop. Forktails continually wag the tail, just as wagtails do, but not with quite the same vigour, possibly because there is so much more to wag! Like wagtails, they do not object to their feet being wet, indeed they love to stand in running water. Forktails often seek their quarry among the dead leaves that become collected in the various angles in the bed of the stream; when so doing they pick up each leaf, turn it over, and cast it aside just as the seven sisters do. They seem to like to work upstream when seeking for food. Jerdon states that he does not remember ever having seen a forktail perch; nevertheless the bird frequently flies on to a branch overhanging the brook, and rests there, slowly vibrating its forked tail as if in deep meditation. Spotted forktails are often seen near the places where the _dhobis_ wash clothes by banging them violently against rocks, hence the name dhobi-birds, by which they are called by many Europeans. The little forktail does not haunt the washerman's _ghat_ for the sake of human companionship, for it is a bird that usually avoids man. The explanation is probably that the shallow pool in which the _dhobi_ works and grunts is well adapted to the feeding habits of the forktail. I may here remark that in the Himalayas the washerman usually pursues his occupation in a pool in a mountain stream overhung with oaks and rhododendron trees, amid scenery that would annually attract thousands of visitors did it happen to be within a hundred miles of London. Not that the prosaic _dhobi_ cares two straws for the scenery--nor, I fear, does the pretty little forktail. As I have already hinted, forktails are rather shy birds. If they think they are being watched they become restless and stand about on boulders, uttering a prolonged plaintive note, which is repeated at intervals of a few seconds. When startled they fly off, emitting a loud scream. But they are pugnacious to others of their kind, especially at the breeding season. I once saw a pair attack and drive away from the vicinity of their nest a Himalayan whistling-thrush (_Myiophoneus temmincki_)--another bird that frequents hill-streams, and a near relation of the Malabar whistling-thrush or idle schoolboy. The nursery of the forktail, although quite a large cup-shaped structure, is not easy to discover; it blends well with its surroundings, and the birds certainly will not betray its presence if they know they are being watched. The nest is, to use Hume's words, "sometimes hidden in a rocky niche, sometimes on a bare ledge of rock overhung by drooping ferns and sometimes on a sloping bank, at the root of some old tree, in a very forest of club moss." I once spent several afternoons in discovering a forktail's nest which I was positive existed and contained young, because I had repeatedly seen the parents carrying grubs in the bill. My difficulty was that the stream to which the birds had attached themselves was in a deep ravine, the sides of which were so steep that no animal save a cat could have descended it without making a noise and being seen by the birds. Eventually I decorated my _topi_ with bracken fronds, after the fashion of 'Arry at Burnham Beeches on the August bank holiday. Thus arrayed, I descended to the stream and hid myself in the hollow stump of a tree, near the place where I knew the nest must be. By crouching down and drawing some foliage about me, I was able to command a small stretch of the stream. My arrival was of course the signal for loud outcries on the part of the parent forktails. However, after I had been squatting about ten minutes in my _cache_, to the delight of hundreds of winged insects, the suspicions of the forktails subsided, and the birds began collecting food, working their way upstream. They came nearer and nearer, until one of them passed out of sight, although it was within 10 feet of me. It was thus evident that the nest was so situated that what remained of the tree-trunk obstructed my view of it. This was annoying, but I had one resource left, namely, to sit patiently until the sound of chirping told me that a parent bird was at the nest with food. This sound was not long in coming, and the moment I heard it, up I jumped like a Jack-in-the-box, but without the squeak, in time to see a forktail leave a spot on the bank about 6 feet above the water. I was surprised, as I had the day before examined that place without discovering the nest. However, I went straight to the spot from which the forktail had flown, and found the nest after a little searching. The bank was steep and of uneven surface. Here and there a slab of stone projected from it and pointed downwards. Into a natural hollow under one of these projecting slabs a nest consisting of a large mass of green moss and liver-worts had been wedged. From the earth above the slab grew some ferns, which partially overhung the nest. Across the nest, a few inches in front of it, ran a moss-covered root. From out of the mossy walls of the nest there emerged a growing plant. All these things served to divert attention from the nest, bulky though this was, its outer walls being over 2 inches thick. The inner wall was thin--a mere lining to the earth. The nest contained four young birds, whose eyes were barely open. The young ones were covered with tiny parasites, which seemed quite ready for a change of diet, for immediately after picking up one of the young forktails, I found some thirty or forty of these parasites crawling over my hand! There is luck in finding birds' nests, as in everything else. A few days after I had discovered the one above mentioned, I came upon another without looking for it. When I was walking along a hill-stream a forktail flew out from the bank close beside me, and a search of thirty seconds sufficed to reveal a well-concealed nest containing three eggs. These are much longer than they are broad. They are cream-coloured, mottled and speckled with tiny red markings. _THE NEST OF THE GREY-WINGED OUZEL_ On several occasions this year (1910) I have listened with unalloyed pleasure to the sweet blackbird-like song of the grey-winged ouzel (_Merula boulboul_) at Naini Tal--a station in the Himalayas, consisting of over a hundred bungalows dotted on the well-wooded hillsides that tower 1200 feet above a mountain lake that is itself 6000 feet above the level of the sea. On the northern slope of one of the mountains on the north side of the Naini Tal lake, is a deep ravine, through which runs a little stream. The sides of the ravine are covered with trees--mainly rhododendron, oak, and holly. On July 1st I went 1000 feet down this ravine to visit the nest of a spotted forktail (_Henicurus maculatus_) which I had discovered a week previously. Having duly inspected the blind, naked, newly-hatched forktails, I went farther down the stream to try to see something of a pair of red-billed blue magpies (_Urocissa occipitalis_). The magpies were not at home that afternoon, and while waiting for them I caught sight of a bird among the foliage lower down the hill. At first I took this for a Himalayan whistling-thrush. I followed its movements through my field-glasses, and saw it alight on part of the gnarled and twisted trunk of a rhododendron tree. Closer inspection showed that the bird was a grey-winged ouzel. He had apparently caught sight of me, for his whole attitude was that of a suspicious bird with a nest in the vicinity. He remained motionless for several minutes. As I watched him a ray of sunlight penetrated the thick foliage and fell upon the part of the tree where he was standing, and revealed to me that he was on the edge of a cunningly-placed nest. The trunk of the rhododendron tree bifurcated about 20 feet above the ground; one limb grew nearly upright, the other almost horizontally for a few feet, and then broke up into five branches, or, rather, gave off four upwardly-directed branches, each as thick as a man's wrist, and then continued its horizontal direction, greatly diminished in size. The four upwardly-directed branches took various directions, each being considerably twisted, and one actually curling round its neighbour. At the junction of the various branches lay the nest, resting on the flat surface, much as a large, shallow pill-box might rest in the half-closed palm of the hand of a man whose fingers were rugged and twisted with years of hard toil. The upper part of the trunk was covered by a thick growth of green moss, and from it two or three ferns sprang. As the exterior of the nest consisted entirely of green moss, it blended perfectly with its surroundings. From below it could not possibly have been seen. When I caught sight of it I was standing above it at the top of the ravine, and even then I should probably have missed seeing it, had not that ray of sunlight fallen on the nest and imparted a golden tint to the fawn-coloured plumage of the nestlings which almost completely filled the nest cup. The situation of this nest may be said to be typical, although cases are on record of the nursery being placed on the ground at the root of a tree, or on the ledge of a rock. Many ouzels' nests are placed on the stumps of pollard trees, and in such cases the shoots which grow out of the stump often serve to hide the nest from view. The nests built by grey-winged ouzels vary considerably in structure. The commonest form is that of a massive cup, composed exteriorly of moss and lined with dry grass, a layer of mud being inserted between the moss and the grass lining. This mud layer does not invariably occur. The cock ouzel remained for fully five minutes with one eye on me, and then flew off. I seized the opportunity to approach nearer the nest, and took up a position on the hillside level with it, at a distance of about 14 feet. In a few minutes the hen bird appeared. Her prevailing hue is reddish brown, while the cock is black all over, save for some large patches of dark grey on the wings. In each sex the bill and legs are reddish yellow, the bill being the more brightly coloured. The hen caught sight of me and beat a hurried retreat, without approaching the nest. The young ouzels kept very still; occasionally one of them would half raise its head. That was almost the only movement I noticed. Presently the cock appeared, with his beak full of caterpillars. He alighted on a branch a few feet from the nest, where he caught sight of me; but instead of flying off as the hen had done, he held his ground and fixed his eye on me, no doubt swearing inwardly, but no audible sound escaped him. Whenever I have watched a pair of birds feeding their young, I have almost invariably noticed that one of them is far more alarmed at my presence than the other. The ouzels proved no exception to the rule. In this case it was the cock who showed himself the bolder spirit. He remained watching me for fully ten minutes, his legs and body as immobile as those of a statue, but he occasionally turned his head to one side in order to obtain a better view of me; and I could then see, outlined against the sky, the wriggling forms of several caterpillars hanging from his bill. I hoped that he would pluck up courage to feed his youngsters before my eyes; but his heart failed him, for presently he flew to another tree a little farther away, whence he again contemplated me. After this he kept changing his position, never uttering a sound, and always retaining hold of the beakful of caterpillars. After a little the hen returned with her bill full of caterpillars, but she did not venture within 75 feet of the nest. I was not permitted to observe how long it would take the parental instinct to overcome the natural timidity of the birds. The sky suddenly became overcast, and a few minutes later I found myself enveloped in what the Scotch call a "wet mist." At certain seasons of the year rain storms come up as unexpectedly in the Himalayas as they do in the Grampians. The rain put a final end to my observations on that nest, as I had to leave Naini Tal on the following day--an event which caused more sorrow to me than to the ouzels!