102 BUSH DAYS 



But sweeter far than blossoms, or buds, or beetles, are the 

 birds. The air is rilled with their sweetness, the liquid note 

 of one honey-eater, the sharp call of another, the ringing cry 

 of a thrush, the clear bright call of a thickhead, the sweet 

 dropping notes of the native canary they rill the land with 

 joy and melody, and by their swift and joyous flight they 

 seem to bring the world a little nearer heaven. 



But sweeter even than their songs is the sight of the 

 baby birds. Of all the treasures that spring brings, there is 

 nothing more entrancing than the sight of a dainty bird's 

 nest, swung like a cradle on the twigs of a young sapling, 

 or rocking gently to and fro in the soft breeze, while within 

 two tiny nestlings snuggle together, or peep little inquisitive 

 faces over the edge into the big new world. 



In their very earliest stages they are not always things 

 of beauty, these baby birds. They are blind, and all their 

 covering is a few tufts of thin down, and the greatest part of 

 them seems to be a huge yellow mouth, which they hold up 

 insistently to be filled. But a week changes all that, and the 

 little feather buds which follow on the down, throw off their 

 sheaths, and the ugly, squirming little object is transformed 

 into a soft ball of downy feathers, a stage at which all young 

 birds are wholly delightful. 



Baby birds are easily seen. They have not learned 

 caution, and sing for their supper all through the day, reckless 

 of all the speering bodies who may be about. One has only 



