With the chakar the sexes are faithful, even in very large flocks the
birds all being ranged in couples. When one bird begins to sing its
partner immediately joins, but with notes entirely different in quality.
Both birds have some short deep notes, the other notes of the female
being long powerful notes with a trill in them; but over them sounds the
clear piercing voice of the male, ringing forth at the close with great
strength and purity. The song produces the effect of harmony, but,
comparing it with human singing, it is less like a _duo_ than a
_terzetto_ composed of bass, contralto, and soprano.

At certain times, in districts favourable to them, the chakars often
assemble in immense flocks, thousands of individuals being sometimes
seen congregated together, and in these gatherings the birds frequently
all sing in concert. They invariably--though without rising--sing at
intervals during the night, "counting the hours," as the gauchos say;
the first song being at about nine o'clock, the second at midnight, and
the third just before dawn, but the hours vary in different districts.

I was once travelling with a party of gauchos when, about midnight, it
being intensely dark, a couple of chakars broke out singing right ahead
of us, thus letting us know that we were approaching a watercourse,
where we intended refreshing our horses. We found it nearly dry, and
when we rode down to the rill of water meandering over the broad dry bed
of the river, a flock of about a thousand chakars set up a perfect roar
of alarm notes, all screaming together, with intervals of silence after;
then they rose up with a mighty rush of wings. They settled down again a
few hundred yards off, and all together burst forth in one of their
grand midnight songs, making the plains echo for miles around.

There is something strangely impressive in these spontaneous outbursts