such times when they have risen till their dark bulky bodies appear like
floating specks on the blue sky, or until they disappear from sight
altogether, the notes become wonderfully etherealized by distance to a
soft silvery sound, and it is then very delightful to listen to them.

It seems strange that so ponderous a fowl with only six feet and a half
spread of wings should possess a power of soaring equal to that of
vultures and eagles. Even the vulture with its marvellous wing power
soars chiefly from necessity, and when its crop is full finds no
pleasure in "scaling the heavens by invisible stairs." The chakar leaves
its grass-plot after feeding and soars purely for recreation, taking so
much pleasure in its aerial exercises that in bright warm weather, in
winter and spring, it spends a great part of the day in the upper
regions of the air. On the earth its air is grave and its motions
measured and majestic, and it rises with immense labour, the wings
producing a sound like a high wind. But as the bird mounts higher,
sweeping round as it ascends, just as vultures and eagles do, it
gradually appears to become more buoyant, describing each succeeding
circle with increasing grace. I can only account for this magnificent
flight, beginning so laboriously, by supposing that the bubble space
under the skin becomes inflated with an air lighter than atmospheric
air, enabling a body so heavy with wings disproportionately short to
float with such ease and evident enjoyment at the vast heights to which
the bird ascends. The heavenward flight of a large bird is always a
magnificent spectacle; that of the chakar is peculiarly fascinating on
account of the resounding notes it sings while soaring, and in which the
bird seems to exult in its sublime power and freedom.

I was once very much surprised at the behaviour of a couple of chakars
during a thunderstorm. On a still sultry day in summer I was standing