Even as every English seaside resort has its “season,” so is there for every Indian _jhil_ a period of the year when it is thronged with avian visitors. At other times of the year the _jhil_, like the seaside town, is, comparatively speaking, deserted. The season of the _jhil_ extends from October to April—a term long enough to turn the average lodging-house keeper green with envy! During the winter months the _jhils_ of Northern India are full to overflowing with ducks, geese, coots, pelicans, cormorants, and waders of every length of leg. As the weather grows hot, the majority of these take to their wings and hie themselves to cooler climes, where they enter upon the joyous toil of rearing up their families. Thus, from May to September, the permanent residents hold undisputed possession of the _jhil_. The number of these permanent residents is considerable, so that a _jhil_, even in the rains, when it contains most water, has not the forlorn appearance of, let us say, Margate in winter.
It is very pleasant during a short break in the rains to visit a _jhil_ late in the afternoon, especially if a breeze be blowing. The sky presents a panorama of clouds of the most varied and fantastic shapes, to which the setting sun imparts hues wonderful and beautiful. The slanting rays are reflected and refracted from cloud to cloud, so that not infrequently there appear to be two suns behind the clouds, a major one setting in the west and a minor one sinking to the eastern horizon. The earth below is very beautiful. It is clothed in a mantle of green of every hue, from the vivid emerald of the young rice crop to the dark bluish green of the pipal tree. As likely as not the _jhil_ is so thickly studded with grasses and other aquatic plants as to present the appearance, from a little distance, of a number of flooded fields, in most of which are well-grown crops—the water being visible only in patches here and there.
The most conspicuous of the occupants of the _jhil_ are the snow-white egrets (_Herodias alba_). These birds, which attain a length of a yard, strut about solemnly in the shallower parts of the lake, seeking their quarry. Their long necks project high above the vegetation; so slender are these that they might almost belong to swans. Here and there stands motionless a “long-necked heron, dread of nimble eels” (_Ardea cinerea_), waiting patiently until a luckless frog shall approach. The grey plumage of this species, dull and sober though it be, stands out in bold contrast to the surrounding greenery. In another part of the _jhil_ a couple of sarus cranes (_Grus antigone_) are visible. This is the only species of crane resident in India; the others are to be numbered among those which visit the _jhil_ in the “season.” One of the saruses, like the heroine of the “penny dreadful,” has drawn himself up to his full height, and his grey form, relieved by patches of red and white on the head and neck, shows well against the background of dark foliage. His mate is apparently sitting down. This probably indicates the presence of a nest. To discover this we must wade and chance an occasional immersion to the waist. Risking this, we advance, to the disgust of the saruses, who set up a loud trumpeting. Sometimes the parent birds attack the intruders. Such conduct is, however, rare. Usually the sarus indulges in Lloyd-Georgian methods of meeting an enemy.