CHAPTER IV. 



THE PASSING. 



I WISH it were always Spring !" A trite senti- 

 ment, this, but notable in the present in- 

 stance because it comes from a British bird- 

 lover, a man of attainments in literature and the 

 lore of Nature. The expression surprises by reason 

 of its author, and I wonder idly if he really means, 

 or meant, what he wrote. For surely a little reflec- 

 tion will show the sentiment to be as weak as it is 

 superficial. 



The Springtide of the year, as with the Spring- 

 tide of life, must ever be the playtime of the earth, 

 but no less fundamental a principle is that of 

 change. I hold, indeed, that the comparatively even 

 nature of the Australian climate is one of the chief 

 factors in the poetic product of the land; its 

 geniality conduces to song, but there is not the 

 sternness and vitality that beget world-music. 



Of what avail to reflect on the grotesque and 

 staggering possibilities that suggest themselves in 

 the idea of a mundane world minus the pulse of the 

 seasons? Let it be said, however, that a Nature- 

 lover comes close to breaking faith with both his 

 old Nurse and himself when he pines for what is 

 not in a matter of this kind. There is felicity and 



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