the tiniest of cage-birds, and have red beaks: whence they are sometimes called Waxbills. The Munias are twice as large, though still very small, and have black, or slaty, bills. But they are all one brotherhood, and will live together in amity, though you pack them so thick that some have to find a perch on the backs of others. So you will find them packed in the cages at the Crawford Market. But they are not unhappy, like most of the birds there, for their wants are small. Give them dry seed and clean water and they will look on the bright side of things. It is to this happy disposition that they owe their popularity as pets, for they have no accomplishments and are as silly and uninteresting as birds can be. The common Amadavat has, indeed, a little piping song, which is sweet, though feeble, and the Brown Munia sometimes warbles a love-sick ditty to its mate, hopping absurdly with its legs straddled out, but you must put your hand to your ear to catch the sound. And the rest confine themselves to a note of one syllable, which they repeat about thirty-five times in a minute when they are in good spirits. But it is a pleasant note, and I think a cage-full of Amadavats and Munias in the verandah always adds to the cheerfulness of the house. The common Amadavat (Estrelda amandava) is found in most parts of India, but I doubt its right to be called a native of Bombay. There are always some in the island, and I have seen a pair making a nest at Tardeo, but I suspect they are all escaped prisoners. The male Amadavat has two suits in the year. In summer it is a sparkling gem, splashed all over the face, breast, and back with crimson, which, however, keeps its brilliance only in
