SEPTEMBER REVELRY 39 



about a scarred old stump, you come face to face 

 with a shapely grey bird, looking at you with big, 

 bright eyes, half-frightened, half-fearless. 



A mother-bird is, I think, rather less afraid under 

 such circumstances than when she returns from 

 foraging and finds a stranger looking curiously in 

 at her treasures. Over many years I can still hear 

 the shrill, musical shout of alarm emitted by a 

 mother Thrush who caught me peering at her trio 

 of helpless babies. The nestlings were quite blind, 

 but at the sound of the mother's voice every neck 

 was extended and each wide yellow mouth opened 

 in a plea for food. Evidently the hearing of a baby 

 bird comes at birth, whereas ability to distinguish 

 the nature of a call does not develop until the eyes 

 open. 



The true melody of the Thrush is rather of the 

 Autumn than the Spring. Now the notes are flung 

 out, not with the reflective ease of the retrospective 

 vein, but with greater passion. Once I heard an 

 excited Harmonica whistling spiritedly while on 

 the wing, after the manner of a Butcher-Bird, and 

 on another occasion one of the handsome grey birds 

 caused surprise by chuckling indiscreetly while 

 nest-building fifteen feet up in the fork of a sapling 

 a young wife, I suspect, unable to repress her 

 exultation in the marvellous tale and the beauty of 

 the Spring. 



The nest of the Thrush, in the bark material and 

 general structure no less than in general situation, 

 much resembles that of the Crested Bell-Bird. No 

 birds'-nesting boy could ever distinguish between 

 these homes until the eggs were laid, after which 



