SONG OF THE LYRE-BIRD 109 



cold chills run down one's back, whispers, moans, cries, 

 and laughter. I clearly distinguished the coarse laugh 

 of the giant kingfisher, the cooing of the dove, the 

 call of the black and white shrike, the song of the rusty- 

 backed thrush, the scream of the hawk, and the hoarse 

 screeching of the cockatoo. Sometimes the song, with 

 a volume like a large organ, was loud and sweet, and 

 it seemed as if the musician must be within a stone's- 

 throw ; then, again, it died away to the faintest whis- 

 per. 



There was a mellow richness in parts that reminded 

 me of the liquid notes of the clarinet. We sat spell- 

 bound till the song ceased. I have heard most of our 

 American songsters, and some of them are very fine, 

 with voices rich and mellow ; but the mocking-bird 

 himself cannot compare with this prince of songsters, 

 the Australian lyre-bird (Menura Victoria^. 



This one was just below us in a gully thick with 

 tree-ferns and scrub, and we did not get sight of him. 

 As we walked on, the trees grew larger, the lower 

 growths more dense, and by the time we reached 

 Pheasant Creek, our destination, we were in a forest of 

 the finest trees I have ever seen, some of them tow- 

 ering to a height of three or four hundred feet, and 

 twenty feet in diameter at the base. They are not so 

 disappointing as the " California big trees," which 

 start from the ground enormous, and before they reach 

 fifty feet have dwindled to one-third their former size ; 



