ry
and render me some assistance in getting through to India.

By request of the officer I send the governor of Herat a sketch of the
bicycle, to enlighten him somewhat concerning its character and
appearance. No doubt, it would be a stretching of his Asiatic dignity as
the governor of an important city, to come to Rosebagh on purpose to see
it for himself, and on no circumstances can I, an unauthorized Ferenghi
invading the country against orders, be permitted to visit Herat.

The transfer having been duly made, I am conducted, a mile or so, to the
garden of a gentleman named Mohammed Ahziin Khan, my quarters there being
an open bungalow just large enough to stretch out in. Here is provided
everything necessary for the rude personal comfort of the country, and
such additional luxuries as raisins and pomegranates are at once brought.
Here, also, I very promptly make the acquaintance of Moore's famous
bul-buls, the "sweet nightingales" of Lalla Eookh. The garden is full of
fruit-trees and grape-vines, and here several pairs of bul-buls make
their home. They are great pets with the Afghans, and when Mohammed Ahzim
Khan calls "bul-bul, bul-bul," they come and alight on the bushes close
by the bungalow and perk their heads knowingly, evidently expecting to be
favored with tid-bits. They are almost tame enough to take raisins out of
the hand, and hesitate not to venture after them when placed close to our
feet. It is the first time I have had the opportunity of a close
examination of the bul-bul. They are almost the counterpart of the
English starling as regards size and shape, but their bodies are of a
mousey hue; the head and throat are black, with little white patches on
either "cheek;" the tail feathers are black, tipped with white, and on
the lower part of the body is a patch of yellow; the feathers of the head
form a crest that almost rises to the dignity of a tassel.

While the bul-bul is a companionable little fellow and possessed of a
cheery voice, his warble in no respects resembles the charming singing of
the nightingale, and why he should be mentioned in connection with the
sweet midnight songster of the English woodlands is something of a
mystery. His song is a mere "clickety click" repeated rapidly several
times. His popularity comes chiefly from his boldness and his
companionable associations with mankind. The bul-bul is as much of a
favorite in the Herat Valley as is robin red-breast in rural England, or
th