the white-breasted kingfisher, the curious
harsh clamour of the cuckoo-shrike, and, last but by no means least,
the sweet and cheerful whistling refrain of the fan-tail flycatcher,
which at frequent intervals emanates from a tree in the garden or the
mango tope. Nor is the bird choir altogether hushed during the hours
of darkness. Throughout the year, more especially on moonlit nights,
the shrieking _kucha_, _kwachee_, _kwachee_, _kwachee_, _kwachee_ of
the little spotted owlet disturbs the silences of the moon. Few nights
pass on which the dusky horned owl fails to utter his grunting
hoot, or the jungle owlet to emit his curious but not unpleasant
_turtuck_, _turtuck_, _turtuck_, _turtuck_, _turtuck_, _tukatu_,
_chatuckatuckatuck_.

The above are the commonest of the bird calls heard throughout the
year. They form the basis of the avian melody in India. This melody is
reinforced from time to time by the songs of those birds that may be
termed the seasonal choristers. It is the presence or absence of the
voices of these latter which imparts distinctive features to the
minstrelsy of every month of the year.

In January the sprightly little metallic purple sunbird pours forth,
from almost every tree or bush, his powerful song, which, were it a
little less sharp, might easily be mistaken for that of a canary.

From every mango tope emanates a loud "Think of me ... Never to be."
This is the call of the grey-headed flycatcher (_Culicicapa
ceylonensis_), a bird that visits the plains of northern India every
winter. In summer it retires to the Himalayas for nesting purposes.
Still more melodious is the call of the wood-shrike, which is
frequently heard at this season, and indeed during the greater part of
the year.

Every now and again the green barbet emits his curious chuckling
laugh, followed by a monotonous _kutur_, _kutur_, _kuturuk_. At rare
intervals his cousin, the coppersmith, utters a soft _wow_ and thereby
reminds us that he is in the land of the living. These two species,
more especially the latter, seem to dislike the cold weather. They
revel in the heat; it is when the thermometer stands at something over
100 degrees in the shade that they feel like giants refreshed, and
repeat their loud calls with wearying insistence throughout the hours
of daylight.

The nuthatches begin to tune up in January. They sing with more cheer
than harmony, their love-song being a sharp penetrating
_tee-tee-tee-tee-tee_.

Th