THE PASSING 63 



poem is quite in the spirit of the rich song of the 

 bird: ,a 



Bravo, bravo, gay bewitcher! 

 All the countryside is richer 



For your lavish joy this morn in merry stave; 

 "Wh-wh-what joy! More joy!" Hear him! 

 Who could be despondent near him? 



Such a perky, chatty, cheery little knave! 



In these warming days you hear but little of the 

 golden voice of the Thrush's confrere, the Crested 

 Bell-Bird. The round, full tolling no longer echoes 

 through the aisles of the bush as it did in the cooler 

 months; for the Bell-Bird now has its Thrush-like 

 nest to tend in the recesses of a bushy stump. Dry 

 weather troubles this queer bird but little; in fact, 

 the foreboding Spring of 1914 gave me more nests 

 of the species than I have ever found before. Not 

 by the most careful subterfuge was it possible, how- 

 ever, to get on terms of amity with those strange 

 birds. Parents refused to return to their homes in 

 face of an intrusive camera, and callow babies were 

 no more amenable. One trio of nestlings closed 

 their eyes and waved their heads in precisely the 

 fashion of outraged caterpillars, and the single in- 

 mate of another nest, although not nearly able to 

 fly, jumped out at a touch, and hopped away as fast 

 as its baby feet could carry it. This action quite 

 met with the view of the parent bird, which hopped 

 along the ground ahead, calling its offspring in a 

 confidential chatter. Brought back to the nest, the 

 restless little creature repeated the pretty indiscre- 

 tion again and again, and had perforce to be allowed 

 to go its own sweet way. 



