one, however, which is very easily recognised, and I know that it is resident among us, because I have found its nest in Girgaum, not far from the Grant Road station, where there is, or used to be, some marshy land devoted to the cultivation of rice. The bird I mean is the White-breasted Waterhen (Gallinula phœnicura)—a blackish bird, with a pure white face, throat and breast. The under parts are chestnut, especially towards the tail, and as it is generally walking hastily away from you, with its tail cocked up, this is important. The contrast of these colours catches the eye and is not easily forgotten. And if the aspect of the White-breasted Waterhen catches the eye, its voice does more than catch the ear. The clamour which this little bird can raise is something astounding. During the dry season it is silent enough, but as soon as the rain begins it gets boisterous, and roars and hiccups and cackles as if it were some great wild beast and not a small fowl. The precise import of the uproar I have never been able to make out, but it must be either a serenade or a family quarrel, for the monsoon is the season when the Waterhen aspires to have a family. It lives by preference among flooded rice fields, bordered by high hedges overrun with rank creepers, among which it clambers like a cat with its great spreading feet. And in the thickest part of some such hedge it makes its clumsy nest and lays four or five beautiful eggs, of a light buff colour, spotted with reddish brown and pale blue. In default of any situation of this kind, the nest I found in Bombay had been built in the top of a date palm. The young of Waterhens run as soon as they are hatched, so the parents had
