of it you cannot mistake it. A little bird, like a tomtit, in black and yellow, followed by its mate in green and yellow, can be nothing else than the lora. The nest of this bird is a beautiful piece of work, a little cup, the size of a small after-dinner coffee cup, compactly woven of fine fibres and bound all round the outside with white cobwebs. A pair built in my garden last August, in a little fork, embowered in leaves, at the end of a low branch of a tree not four yards from my verandah. He discovered the place first, and with much low cheeping and flapping of his wings, invited her to come and see it. She seemed to approve, but could not quite make up her mind for some days, though he often brought her in and went through the funniest little pantomime to show her what a cosy and delightful site he thought it. At last she agreed and they set to work furnishing, but so slyly did they come and go that I could not watch the progress of the work. After a week, however, I could see from one particular point the finished nest. Another week and her tail was projecting over the edge of it, and I knew that two or three little speckled eggs were under her. Every morning he would slip in and take her place, while she went to stretch her wings and get a little food. I was looking forward to the pleasure of watching the upbringing of the family, but just about the time when the eggs should have hatched, some evil beast, or blackguard crow, found and devoured them. That nest is now in my museum.
Whatever the true affinities of the Iora may be, I think there can be little question that the bird which Jerdon calls the Green Bulbul (Phyllornis jerdoni) is
