60 A BUSH CALENDAR 



winter sleep a couple of months ago. The fences are scaly with 

 the dry shells shed by them, while the gum trunks, especially 

 the ironbarks, are spotted from head to foot with the same 

 brown husks. On grey, damp days, I have found dozens of 

 the newly-hatched or should it be fledged? cicadas clinging 

 helplessly to posts and tree trunks, waiting for their wings to 

 dry. At' such times they fall an easy prey to the ants, who 

 devour them alive, and to their other enemy, the small boy. 

 But though numbers perish in early youth, there are still left 

 myriads upon myriads to swell the summer chorus, to drown 

 the voices of the birds, and to tempt small boys to climb all 

 sorts of impossible places in pursuit of them. 



They have certainly done their best to make the past month 

 what it has been, a noisy, noisy month. The bush has been 

 robbed of much of its peace(fulness since December came in ; 

 for, added to the' deafening song of the cicada, and the shout of 

 the boy in pursuit of him, there has been the invading army of 

 flower-gatherers and picnickers, who have arrived in hordes, 

 leaving desolation and many tins in their wake. They have 

 dragged the maiden-hair up by its roots, torn the Christmas 

 bushes to shreds, and plucked every Christmas bell for miles 

 around. They have strewn their papers, tins, and fruit-peelings 

 all over the sheltered spots and shady corners, and have thrown 

 their broken bottles into the creeks and gullies. They have 

 made the day hideous with their shrieks and noisy laughter, 

 and the night a thing of pain with their camping songs. 



