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BIRDS OF MY GARDEN. 

 By E. C. MORRICE. 



" My garden is a sanctuary for birds. 



"No boys with catapults or shot-guns maim or kill my feathered 

 " friends. No ruthless egg-collectors rob their nests. 



" The tall Californian pine, the feathery wattles, the hedges of 

 " roses, laurel, and japonica afford shelter for their wondrously-woveu 

 "cradles, and newly-fledged nestlings. My warbling, trilling, twittering 

 " guests go through their various stages of courting, nesting, and rearing of 

 "young in securit}'. 



"My reward is their confiding companionship, their tender melodies, 

 " and their destruction of the enemies of my flowers ; grubs, caterpillars, 

 " and grasshoppers. 



" Come with me for a while through the sweet wildnerness of this old 

 "garden. I will introduce you to my little refugees. I,ook up into the 

 " green dome of those whispering pines. 



"On a fragile, horizontal branch you will see a small cup-shaped nest, 

 "silvered over with spider-webs. It is the cradle of the black and white 

 " ringtail. You can see the little mother sitting in that silvery bowl. Her 

 "long black tail, lined with white, protrudes from it on one side. Her rest- 

 " less little head moves about on the other. She calls for herniate. ' Pretty 

 " little creatures.' 



" His complimentary answer conies back like an echo from the 

 " willows over the creek, where he searches for her food. Higher up, sway- 

 " ing among the topmost bows, is a magpie's nest. The birds have young 

 "ones, but have such confidence in me and mine that they do not attempt 

 *' to chase us away as we stand looking up or passing underneath. 



" There they warble, their flute-like evening and morning song. Here 

 " the}' feed their nestlings, or walk about the garden paths, with dignified 

 "composure, immaculately clean and neat, in black and white. 



"Hark to that burst of melody from the top of the black wattle. A 

 "short introductory whistle; then a trilling run like that of a canary, 

 " followed by a sweet crescendo, as passionately pleading as that of the 

 " nightingale. 



" It is the pretty bird with white throat ; blackwinged, with russet- 

 " tinted breast, and dark grey wings, known as the ' Australian canary.' 

 " (Perhaps a leader of the Mail can give his correct name.) 



"A harsher note conies from the small crimson-breasted redhead, 

 "wearing a tiny scarlet cap, like that of a British soldier, on his velvety 

 "black poll. He flits from tree to tree, calling for his mate, who has a less 

 "vividly coloured front, and a dainty white dot on her head. 



" Come now under this spreading cj'press-tree. Do you heai a tiny 

 "orchestra, like that of an elfin baud ? It is the svinohonv of the silver- 



