mean the Mynas, which, among all classes of natives who keep pets at all, are favourite cage-birds for many reasons, but chiefly because they can be taught to speak. The performance is rather like a Punch-and-Judy dialogue, and you need to be told what the bird is saying before you can recognise it. But that matters little; it amuses people who can find little interest in the really amusing traits of the bird's natural character.
For the Myna has a character. I once had a Myna and a canary in cages which hung at my window. A ruffianly crow came in one day and perched on the top of the canary's cage. Of course the silly bird fluttered all round the cage, clinging to the bars, and gave the crow the chance it wanted. It caught a leg in its powerful beak and tried to pull it through the bars. But the canary's body could not pass through, so the poor bird's leg was literally torn out by the roots, and it died in a few minutes. I suppose the crow swallowed the leg, and shortly afterwards it returned, thinking to have a leg of the Myna for its next course. I was in the room, but it did not see me; so, after glancing round the room with a proprietary air, it bounced on to the top of the Myna's cage. But the Myna, sitting on its perch, knew it was quite safe and felt no agitation; so it was free to take an interest in the crow, and its interest fixed instantly on an ugly black toe which hung down through the bars over its head. It caught that toe in its sharp beak and made an example of it, I tell you, it was exhilarating to observe the suddenness with which that crow jumped to the conclusion that it had urgent business elsewhere. Here is the
