leave again in the early spring, taking with them doubtless some of their 'Mudian brethren, for no perceptible accession of strength is apparent during the ensuing summer. This is, to my mind, the most delightful of birds, and certainly the flower of the limited flock of Bermuda residents; its brilliant plumage, vivacious manners, and pleasant warble, render it an object of interest to all; while its confiding and fearless nature in the breeding season, and the number of noxious insects it destroys, cause it to be strictly protected throughout the islands. The male bird in spring, when the sun's rays illumine his dazzling blue plumage, is perfectly lovely: he flashes across the road like a ray of azure light, and seems actually to blaze with intense colour from among the sombre foliage of the cedars. His spouse is far more sober in her attire; but she too puts on nuptial attire and looks uncommonly smart in April and May, when she acquires an unusually vivid blue, and much suffusion of reddish brown about the head. I accidentally shot one in this plumage one afternoon, thinking it was a stranger, so much did it differ from the ordinary female. They breed twice, and, I believe, in some cases thrice: I have seen fresh eggs on April 4th, and as late as June 19th. Eggs four or five, delicate pale blue, unspotted, 85 in. by 68 in. Nest of grasses and bents, in all manner of places. I have found them commonly in holes in old quarries or roadside cuttings; also in crevices of walls; in rocks, even when some little distance from the shore; in holes in trees; on the branches of trees; in stove- and water-pipes; in calabashes, boxes, &c., hung up for them in the verandahs of houses; in the folds of a canvas awning outside the door of one of the officers' quarters at Prospect Camp; and in several other curious situations. The female sits close, and I have caught her on the nest. The young are strikingly spotted till their first moult. The males sing much in the early morning in spring, both stationary and on the wing, and continue their song, though with diminished ardour, till an hour or so before sunset. A warm sunny day in winter, however, is the time to hear them in perfection, when a favourite cedar grove will resound with their combined melody, each songster perched on the very topmost twig of a tall cedar. The song is merely a short, but sweet, wild little stave, sounding to me not unlike that of the Blue Thrush, Monticola cyaneus, as I used to hear it from the heights, far away above my head, on the rock of Gibraltar. The call-note is a soft twitter;
