WITH CHILDREN IN BIRDLAND 79 



thoughts of youth were long, long thoughts that 

 afternoon. 



Well, then, if we (or some of us; chiefly our 

 mothers) are able to interpret the message of a 

 small bird, shall not the bird also understand us? 

 Why, certainly: 



On the perfect afternoon of a Queensland win- 

 ter's day I lay on the bank of a small creek near 

 Gympie, with eyes intently fixed on a tree above, 

 into which a yellow bird had disappeared. Pre- 

 sently strolled into the picture three small girls. It 

 was well to be fraternal, but that bird ought not to 

 pass unidentified; and so, without taking my eyes 

 off the tree, I spoke to the children. They stopped 

 at the voice, recognised its owner, and noted the 

 gaze turned aloft. A bit of Fairyland arithmetic 

 followed quickly, and then a pleasantly-awed voice 

 spoke. "Ooo-h!" said the girl, "he's talking to the 

 birds. Let's go 'way!" 



Southward and backward now to days in the bird- 

 realms of southern Australia. There was a time 

 when, in journalistic "between-whiles," I led forth 

 children of another day, those whom the benevolent 

 parson dubs "young people" prospective teachers, 

 to be precise. Those were live hours. 



A girl of fifteen years grew reflective as she 

 watched a group of Babblers vigorously tossing bits 

 of bark about in their insect-hunting. Then a recol- 

 lection stirred. "My !" she said, "that's just the way 

 I fling my books away when I'm wild !" (A brightly 

 colored rage, surely!) 



Again, a flock of English Starlings swept down 

 the horizon on the wings of a high wind. "Gee!" 



