Flocks of green pigeons come in April to feed on the young fruit of the wild fig- trees, which is also eaten by a large species of bat in the evenings.

The pretty little black weaver, with yellow shoulders, appears to enjoy life intensely after assuming his wooing dress.

A hearty breakfast is eaten in the mornings and then come the hours for making merry.

A select party of three or four perch on the bushes which skirt a small grassy plain, and cheer themselves with the music of their own quiet and self-complacent song.

A playful performance on the wind succeeds.
Expanding his soft velvet-like plumage, one glides with quivering pinions to the centre of the open space, singing as he flies, then turns with a rapid whirring sound from his wings--somewhat like a child's rattle--and returns to his place again.