provided he was within reach of the sound. At last the whole flock reached such a height that not even the blast of a trumpet from any pigeon fancier could reach it. Now they stopped circling in the air and began to move horizontally. The competition for leadership had begun. As they manoeuvred from one direction of the heavens to another we, the owners below, had to look up intently in order to make sure of the characteristics of the one whom the pigeons had trusted to lead their flight. For a moment it looked as if my Jahore would lead. But hardly had he gone to the head of the flock when they all turned to the right. That brought about a confusion in the ranks, and, like horses on a race course, all kinds of unknown pigeons pushed forward. But in time each one of them was pushed back by the rest of the flock. This happened so often that we began to lose interest in the contest. It looked as though some nondescript pigeon would win the coveted leadership prize. Now suddenly rose the cry from many house-tops: "Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck!" Yes, many of the pigeon fanciers were shouting that name. Now I could see--without the slightest shadow of error--my own bird at the head of that vast flock--a leader amongst leaders--directing their manoeuvres. Oh! what a glorious moment. He led them from horizon to horizon, each time rising a few feet higher till by eight in the morning not a pigeon could be seen in any corner of the sky. Now we furled our flags and went downstairs to study our lessons. At midday, when again we went above, each man could see the entire wall of pigeons descending. Lo! Gay-Neck was still leading. Again rose the shout "Gay-Neck, Gay-Neck!" Yes, he had won the palm, for he had remained in leadership for more than four hours, and was coming down as he had gone up--a master! Now came the most dangerous part of the flight. The Commander of the vast concourse gave the order to disband, and flock after flock split from the main body, each separate flock flying away to its home. But not too quickly. Some must guard the sky above them while the others flew homeward. Gay-Neck held my little flock in a kind of umbrella formation to protect the rear of the receding pigeons belonging to other contestants. Such is the price of leadership--the other name of self-sacrifice. But now began a horrible climax. In India during the winter the buzzards called Baz, come south. They do not eat carrion; like the eagle and the hawk the Baz generally eats what he kills with his own talons. They are mean and cunning--I think they are a class of low-born eagles--but they resemble kites, although their wings are not frayed at the ends. They fly in pairs slightly above a flock of kites and are hidden by them from their prey, which however they can see in this way without ever being seen themselves.