"In all parts of Jamaica," says Gosse, "that I have visited, the Tody is a very common bird. On the summit of Bluefields Mountain, about 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, and particularly where the deserted provision-grounds are overgrown with an almost impenetrable thicket of joint-wood, it is especially abundant. Always conspicuous, from its bright, grass-green coat, and crimson velvet gorget, it is still a very tame bird; yet this seems rather the tameness of indifference than of confidence: it will allow a person to approach very near, and, if disturbed, alight on another twig a few yards distant. We have often captured specimens with an insect-net, and struck them down with a switch; it is not uncommon for the little boys to creep up behind one, and actually to clap the hand over it as it sits, and thus secure it. It is a general favourite, and has received a familiar name--that of Robin Redbreast. There is little resemblance, however, between the European Robin and its West Indian namesake. I have never seen the Tody on the ground; but it hops about the twigs of low trees, searching for minute insects, occasionally uttering a querulous, sibilant note. But more commonly it is seen sitting patiently on a twig, with the head drawn in, the beak pointing upwards, and the lower plumage puffed out, when it appears much larger than it really is. It certainly has an air of stupidity when thus seen; but this abstraction is more apparent than real. If we watch it we shall see that the odd-looking grey eyes are glancing hither and thither, and that ever and anon the bird sallies out upon a short, feeble flight, snaps at something in the air, and returns to his twig to swallow it. I have never seen the Tody eat vegetable food; but I have occasionally found in its stomach, among minute coleopterous and hymenopterous insects, a few small seeds. One of these birds, which I kept in a cage, would snatch worms from me with impudent audacity, and then beat them violently against the perch or sides of the cage, to divide before he swallowed them. One captured in April, on being turned into a room, began immediately to catch flies and other minute insects that flitted about. At this employment he continued incessantly and most successfully all that evening and all the next day, from earliest dawn till dark. He would sit on the edge of the table, on shelves, or on the floor, ever glancing about, now and then flitting up into the air, when the snap of his beak announced a capture, and he returned to his station to eat it; he would peep into the lowest and darkest corners, even under the tables, for the little globose, long-legged spiders, which he would drag from their webs and swallow. He sought these also about the ceilings and walls. I have said that he continued at this employment all day without intermission, and I judge that on the average he made a capture per minute. We may thus form some idea of the immense number of