THE SCENE-SHIFTER 53 



The sun-birds are searching the lemon blooms. The 

 breast of the gay, assertive little bird is far richer in tint 

 than the brightest of the lemons. A minute ago one 

 perched on a ripe fruit as if to shame it by contrast, 

 and the fruit has since seemed a trifle dull of tint, and 

 with light-hearted inconsequence the pair are now 

 probing narrow throats of papaw flowers. The ground 

 has been too much overgrowai with grass and weeds for 

 the comfort of the little green pigeons which come 

 strutting down the paths for seeds and crumbs. Dry 

 soil, which may be easily scanned and scratched, is more 

 to their liking, so they keep to the forest, where in some 

 places the undergrowth of wattles is so dense that the 

 sun may not visit the ground, and the bare places 

 glitter with seed. 



When rain was seriously deficient, proof was given 

 that some proportion of the wattle seeds eaten by 

 pigeons are not digested. In the crevices of logs sup- 

 porting the water-trough, which proved to be a popular 

 refreshment spot of many species of birds, clamorous 

 with thirst, seeds were deposited, and when the rains 

 came the trough was fringed and decorated with pinnate 

 leaves of sprouting wattles, some of which grew so 

 strongly, notwithstanding the absence of soil, save that 

 which occurs from the slow decay of seasoned blood- 

 wood, that if summary measures had not been taken 

 the trough might have been embowered. The season 

 seems to have been too damp for the night-jars, though 

 quite to the taste of all species of pigeons. In the 

 course of a few minutes the voice of the timid, tremulous, 

 barred-shouldered dove came from among the yellow- 

 flowered hibiscus of the beach, while the pheasant-tailed 

 pigeon sounded its rich, dual note, the red-crowned fruit 

 pigeon tolled its mournful chime, and the guttural of 

 the magnificent fruit pigeon — often heard, but seldom 



