NOVEMBER 43 



round and round the tree, calling loudly as they went. The 

 foster parent, a black-cap, was wild with rage and fear; again 

 and again she dashed at and in her fury drove away the 

 cuckoos, who were many times her size. But though they 

 would retreat before her onslaught, it was only to return with 

 the same calling note. And always the baby bird wailed and 

 wailed, as if miserable at having to choose. 



I watched them for a long time, but the battle seemed to 

 show no signs of ending, so I passed on, through the fence to 

 the rocky ground leading down to the river. 



The first thing that met my eye was a bright yellow orchid 

 creeping in a long strand up the blackened trunk of a burnt 

 gum. It hung on its ugly host with tender little arms, which 

 held it firmly in place, and its delicate flowers stood out vividly 

 against the dark background. Most of the orchids are over 

 now, and it was a joy to find such a beauty. Indeed, most 

 of the spring flowers are vanished, and the few hot days of 

 summer have taken much of the colour from those that remain ; 

 here and there a sheltered spray of boronia speaks of past 

 glory, but though the mass of it has vanished, the bush is 

 still pink in patches with the pinkish purple flowers of the 

 kunzea, which spreads all over the sandstone country. The 

 red flowers of lambertia, the honey flower, show up bravely 

 amongst the dark, spiked leaves, and here and there the red 

 bottle brush (callistemon) lends a dash of colour. But the 

 blaze of colour is past, and it is mostly smaller, quieter flowers 



