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Laughing Kingfishers.



with a sort of gurgling laugh. Once they gave signs of nesting,

but it came to nothing. I have been told they never breed in

England. Their native land is Australia, and a lady from Mel¬

bourne who admired their fine condition very much, told me

they are quite hardy birds, living in the hills, where you can see

flocks of them and hear them laughing at sunset. They are

called the Settlers’ clock, and are greatly valued for keeping

down the snakes and mice and troublesome reptiles, on which

they live. Raw meat they thrive on quite well, but must also

have fur or feathers, as they cast pellets.


One day I was brought out of the house by hearing them

chuckling as if they had caught a little bird, a sad event that

sometimes occurred when the aviary door was opened. I found

them playing at “ French and English ” with what looked like a

long strip of India-rubber, the ends of which they held tight in

their beaks. At first I thought that it was a snake, and wondered

how they could have caught it. On closer examination I found

it was the remains of an unfortunate frog. They sat pulling at

it for hours, and well into the night. Next morning it was gone,

and they were very subdued and silent.


Jill was found lying dead on the ground one morning

early, after being with us many years. She and her mate were

not young when they came, so I could not tell their age. Pre¬

sumably they live to a high age. I had an autopsy of her made,

and the Naturalist who undertook this reported that he had never

seen so fat a bird. She had died of suffocation from over-eating.

The fact was she took all the food from her poor mate, who was

quite thin in consequence. What wonder that he seemed rather

relieved at her departure, and enjoyed his food more than he had

ever done before ! He laughed and sang merrily, but the song

always sounded disjointed, like a duet played on the piano by one

person.


I have had them extremely well set up in a glass case by

Messrs. Watkins and Doncaster, and though a stuffed bird is a

poor exchange for a living one, yet I like to look at the beautiful

plumage of my old friends, and recall the days when their joyous

laugh sounded over the garden.



