30 MATESHIP WITH BIRDS 



first day of each September, and on each occasion, 

 dull or fine, seemed to detect a new brightness in the 

 sky, a richer tone of rapture in the chatter or songs 

 of the birds. In sober truth, the pilgrimage became 

 almost involuntary, a kind of festal day upon which 

 to meander along somewhat after the fashion of 

 Lindsay Gordon (the real Gordon, of "Bush Ballads 

 and Galloping Rhymes"), blending scraps of his 

 and other lyrics with the living music of the bush. 

 "Some songs in all hearts hath existence" when 

 September comes to Australia. . . . "Such songs 

 have been mine." 



Then there were the days immediately following. 

 Later on, nests would be found with a prodigality 

 almost disconcerting to one content to neglect, not 

 to say lose, the flying hours in developing bird- 

 acquaintances on a more parochially intimate scale. 

 But in the early days of September the youthful 

 bird-lover had time to stand and stare. Thus came 

 this entry in the bush diary relating to a third 

 morning of September: 



A peculiar day. The first clear brightness of the 

 sun was overcome by a web of fleecy clouds, which 

 made the background to appear as though a beauti- 

 ful gauzy veil had been drawn gently over it. The 

 tramp poet would have said again, "My fancy loves 

 to play with clouds' 9 had he seen these delicate 

 streamers turning the bright blue to a soft bluish- 

 white, some of them crossing and intercrossing each 

 other at right angles. While gazing idly about at 

 the foot of an old paddock I heard a Cuckoo chorus, 

 the plaintive scale-notes of the Pallid species blend- 

 ing with the lonely monotone of the little Bronze 



