tree seems a centre of sweet strains, soft, low, liquid trills, and
full ripe gushes of melody and song. But it is not thus in an Indian
forest. There are actually few birds. As you brush through the long
grass and trample the tangled undergrowth, putting aside the sprawling
branches, or dodging under the pliant arms of the creepers, you may
flush a black or grey partridge, raise a covey of quail, or startle a
quiet family party of peafowl, but there are no sweet singers flitting
about to make the vaulted arcades of the forest echo to their music.

The hornbill darts with a succession of long bounding flights from one
tall tree to another. The large woodpecker taps a hollow tree close by,
his gorgeous plumage glistening like a mimic rainbow in the sun. A
flight of green parrots sweep screaming above your head, the _golden
oriole_ or mango bird, the _koel_, with here and there a red-tufted
_bulbul_, make a faint attempt at a chirrup; but as a rule the deep
silence is unbroken, save by the melancholy hoot of some blinking owl,
and the soft monotonous coo of the ringdove or the green pigeon. The
exquisite honey-sucker, as delicately formed as the petal of a fairy
flower, flits noiselessly about from blossom to blossom. The natives
call it the 'Muddpenah' or drinker of honey. There are innumerable
butterflies of graceful shape and gorgeous colours; what few birds
there are have beautiful plumage; there is a faint rustle of leaves, a
faint, far hum of insect life; but it feels so silent, so unlike the
woods at home. You are oppressed by the solemn stillness, and feel
almost nervous as you push warily along, for at any moment a leopard,
wolf, or hyena may get up before you, or you may disturb the siesta of
a sounder of pig, or a herd of deer.

Up in those forests on the borders of Nepaul, which are called the
_morung_, there are a great many varieties of parrot, all of them