SEPTEMBER. 169 



the air became vocal with the songs of the thrvishes. 

 Everything, except the tussocks and the blue gums, 

 suggested a valley among the hills of old Scotland. Long 

 after the stars were peeping out, and even when the half 

 moon was throwing my shadow strongly on the road before 

 me, the melody was still kept up. Gradually it died out, 

 and one belated bird came flying down the valley, and as it 

 passed overhead it poured out a stream of song surely 

 another new habit for a thrush, learned in this land of 

 changed conditions. 



