so crowded together that boys can, it is said
knock them down with sticks. But their
flesh is said to resemble that of the pigeon
in appearance and flavour; and as curiosities,
their value in this country exceeds that of
many pies full of pigeons. They are,
therefore, foolishly extravagant eating. As for
their becoming naturalised in this country, our
cold winters, our shooting mania, and their
swift wings, render that highly improbable. As
everybody knows, what is now done with them
is, they are shot, stuffed, and sold for preservation
in museums. But surely snaring them and
keeping them alive as long as possible in aviaries
would be the wisest use to make of them, for
this would give us opportunities of studying
them, and learning something of their habits.
When they died, it would be time enough
to stuff and preserve them as specimens. They
would be far more beautiful, curious, and
interesting, in the aviary than in the museum. It
is, moreover, probable, that they could be easily
tamed. Mr. William Sinclair, of Drugoobe,
Donegal, made one captive, and has found it to
be very easily tamed by kindness. When he
was walking in a rabbit warren by the sea-side,
he came suddenly upon a covey of thirteen or
fourteen birds. After flying up and making a
circle of three or four hundred yards, they flew
almost over his head, and then dropped on the
sands close under the bent hills; whence after
suffering him to come within thirty yards of them,
they flew inland. He was subsequently on the
outlook for them, and shot a cock and wounded
and caught a hen. The captive was curiously
familiar from the first, and seems quite contented,
freely eating grits, canary-seed, and groundsel,
and being fond of washing and splashing
in a pan of water.

DINNER IN A TOMB.

I AND Badger and my dragoman, and our
three donkeys and their attendants, and a
mounted guide with a long rebout or quarterstaff
club over his brown-robed shoulder, are on
our way through a dismal valley of rocks to the
Babel Molook, or Gates of the Kings, through
which, hundreds of years ago, before Homer
grew blind, or Herodotus listened to Egyptian
lies and legends, the kings of Thebes were
borne to their subterranean tombs, with
hieroglyphic standards, lotus banners, and wafts
of frankincense and myrrh from golden vessels,
rising to scare the hyæna and the jackal, who
stand at the mouths of their dens sniffing for
news, and astonishing the vulture, who hangs
motionless above in the fervid air.

An hour ago, we left some mud walls and short
turf worn to the scanty paddedness of an old
hearthrug; an hour ago, we heard the last half-
wild Arab dog bark, the last puny over-hatched
chicken crow sleepily; an hour ago, we saw the
latest case of ophthalmia and naked child, and
were offered the last scarabæi. And we were
now alone, where nothing lived, grew, sang, or
spoke, but ourselves. It was the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, heated seven times hotter
than it was wont to be heated.

Here Badger drew out his revolver and
menaced an imaginary wolf. The guide, looking
round indolently and seeing a pistol-barrel
close to his back, entreated Badger to take care
it did not go off. Badger smiled at the
possibility.

Yesterday, I was scrambling over millions of
tons of the rubbish of old Thebes, or stumbling
over the black skulls or brown shrunken hands
and shreds of the tawny grave-clothes of learned
Thebans, burnt (the rest of them) in peasants'
fires, or the gathering dust in European
museums. To-day, I am in a rocky valley where
man cannot dwell; beneath is desert dust;
above, and on all sides, are cliffs, brown calcined
rocks, on which no grass, no lichen even, not
the smallest white or orange scale of moss, can
cling or find root.

A brown dusty rock, of a dull orange colour
whitened by sunshine, is the grave rock,
compared with whose barrenness the barrenness of
a crayon sky or an alpine needle of granite is
animation; for the one is often wet, glistening
with mist and rain, and the other is itself
beautiful from its contrast with the snow through
which it pierces. But the desolation of red-hot
rock, with desert sand below, is complete indeed,
and a fitting avenue to the tombs of dead pride
and cruelty.

We circled the rocks in single file, stopping
now and then to look at self-made columns
formed here and there in the rock by the
dissolution of softer strata, and to wonder what the
scene would be like when the sudden rains pour
down these dead ravines, and the devastating
water comes leaping down the dead men's
valley, and through the Gates of the Kings,
who were ruthless and tremendous beings, and
lords of Upper and Lower Egypt, when England
was inhabited only by oysters, snipes, and
wolves.

The glare from the rocks is as when you look
closely at a red-hot shovel. You cannot look
up; you butt on, hoping to get somewhere that
will be cooler and less eye-withering. Now we
reach a winding and ascending path, leading
higher into the gorge, where we have to dismount.
I and Badger dismount; our stirrups being held
by the boys, who always select such an Oriental
ceremony as a fit time to remind you of future
"backsheesh," and to utter lying plaudits of
their donkeys.

"Very good donkey, sare; go like steamer;
fast as horse; just same as horse, your donkey,
sare."

Our saddle-bags with the dinner are thrown
over Homar Alee's (the guide's) shoulder, and
we set out for tomb "No. 17, Belzoni tomb,"
as our guide somewhat pedantically names the
first object of our search.

But here our guide, betraying some temper
respecting our wish to keep our wax candles and
German matches in our own care, so that we
may neither be left in the dark half a mile