corrupt, everything in short but the bones, is to be removed from that carcase within twenty-four hours, and the vultures have taken the contract to do it. Such work cannot be made artistic and the vulture is not an æsthete. That bald head and bare neck are not ornamental, but they mean business; they are the sleeves tucked up for earnest work. It is a merciful and, I suppose, a necessary provision of nature, that every creature gets reconciled to its task and is able even to take pleasure in that which would be painful to others. The vulture enjoys the full benefit of this provision. It is in fact an enthusiast in its profession, and these funeral wakes become scenes of riotous and ghoulish glee to which I confess that even philosophic reflection fails to impart moral beauty. The gourmands jostle and bump against each other, and chase each other round the board with long, ungainly hop and open wings. One has no sooner thrust its head well into the carcase than another leaps upon its back with loud laughter. Two get hold of opposite ends of a long strip of offal and dance before each other with wings outstretched. And the cackling and grunting and roaring that go on all the while may be heard for half a mile. When darkness overtakes the revellers some of them have so shamefully over-eaten themselves that they cannot rise from the ground and are forced to spend the night where they are. They seem to be quite safe, however. The jackal is not a fastidious feeder, but it draws the line at vultures. These scenes used not very long ago to be enacted regularly on the Flats, where the carcases of horses and cattle were skinned and left.
