8 4 



" Another roll of melody. It comes from that snowy-blossoming pear 

 "tree. This is the defiant, clarion-like note of the fierce shrike or butcher- 

 " bird. 



" See, there he is ! A flat-headed, grey bird, bold marauder, and free- 

 " lance, whose cruel beak is dreaded by smaller birds and beasts. 



" He is not one of my favoured guests ; a stone flung at random 

 " hunts him from my sanctum. Away he goes. We hear his metallic voice 

 "emphasising his indignation at a safe distance. 



" ' Chitta-bob, chitta-bob ! ' Here is the little bird that builds iu a 

 "hole ill the walls or under the roofs. I have even heard him in our 

 " country church, the impudent little fellow. He is a kind of diamond 

 "sparrow, but not so beautifully speckled or coloured as those of li is species, 

 "flying ill flocks, and seldom coining near human habitations. 



"But now the sun is setting behind the wooded hills. My lodgers 

 " are retiring to rest. 



"The wagtail whistles goodnight to her husband; the magpies croon 

 " a lullaby to their babies; the wrens give one trilling run of happiness, 

 " and subside into silence; from the scrub conies the echoing laughter of 

 "the 'shepherd's bell,' the kookaburras. 



"Good-night; peace and security be with you, my feathered coni- 

 " panions." — Sydney and Australasian Mail. 



