The Song of the Silvereye 



J HERE'S a canary up that tree," said a small boy, point- 

 ing' to a large Moreton Bay fig, fifty yards along the 

 path. 



" How do you know?" I asked. 



" I heard him. Listen, and you'll hear him too." 



I listened, and on the air there came the song of a bird, 

 gentle, sweet and soft, but increasing in volume as i neared the 

 fig tree. 



There was something very familiar in the tones, and yet it 

 was not quite the song of a canary. It was sweeter, and 

 softer, and less embodied. For a moment I was puzzled as to 

 what it could be, then a sad little sigh broke the twitter of 

 the song, and I exclaimed, " Why, it's a silvereye ! " 



The small boy looked at me in scorn. " A sivie !" he said, 

 with a world of derision in his tones, " A sivie couldn't sing 

 like that. It's a canary." 



A fuller gush of music came from the tree, making me 

 incline to his opinion ; but I was not quite satisfied. One 

 sight of the singer would have settled all doubts, but that 

 sight was hard to get. The thick leaves of the fig made an 

 excellent cover for the bird, and though I and the small boy 

 both craned our necks, not a glimpse could we get of it. 



It does not take long to collect a crowd. In a few minutes 



