1 8 TROPIC DAYS 



which he may point as special evidence of inspiration ? 

 He may feel the indefinable without comprehending any 

 material reason why. He may confess, although there 

 is but a trifle more sunshine than a month ago — and 

 what influence a trifle where there is so much — and 

 scarcely any difference of temperature, that Nature is 

 insisting on obedience to one of her mighty laws — the 

 law of heredity. Why, therefore, refrain from justifying 

 the allusion ? Why persist in dechning the invitations 

 of the hour ? Far be it from me to do so. Is sufferance 

 the cognizance of this Free Isle ? 



All my days are Days of the Sun. All my days are 

 holy. Duty ma}- suggest the propriety of contentment 

 within four walls. Inchnation and the thrill of the 

 season lure me to gloat over the more manifest of its 

 magic. Be sure that, unabashed and impenitent, shall 

 I riot over sordid industiy during the most gracious 

 time of year to hearken to the eloquence and accept the 

 teachings of unpeopled spaces. 



Such is the silence of the bush that the silken rustle 

 of the butterflies becomes audible and the distinctive 

 flight of birds is recognised — not alone such exaggerated 

 differences as the whirr of quail, the bustle of scrub 

 fowl, and the whistle and clacking of nutmeg pigeons, 

 but the delicate and tender characteristics of the wing 

 notes of the meeker kinds of doves and the honey- 

 eaters, and also the calculated flutterings of the fly- 

 catchers. In the whistling swoop of the grey goshawk 

 there is a note of ominous blood-thirstiness, silent though 

 the destroyer has sat awaiting the moment for swift and 

 decisive action. 



Seldom, even on the stillest evening, may the presence 

 of the night-jar be detected, except by its coarse call, 

 while the sprightly little sun-bird flits hither and thither, 

 prodigal of its vivid colours and joying with machine- 



