JANUARY 65 



by gardeners. How the bushes came to be left undisturbed 

 by the picnickers is a wonder, unless they were too busy tear- 

 ing to pieces the Christmas bushes, mutilated remains of which 

 marked the vandal's progress all the way. 



Although it was late when I reached the spot where the 

 creek should join the main stream, it was not too dark to see 

 the rosy flush of a tall coachwood in full blossom. The coach- 

 wood is first cousin to the Christmas bush and though its leaves 

 are bigger its calyx is just as red and effective as that of the 

 better-known species. Evidently the picnickers hadn't pene- 

 trated so far down the gully, as the tree was absolutely un- 

 touched, and stood in perfect beauty in the evening light. Near 

 by, the tall flower spikes of the wild parsley gleamed white in 

 the gloaming. This flower, orchid-like in its creamy beauty, 

 is out in profusion just now, and is one of the few blossoms in 

 evidence on the sandstone that has been robbed of its Christmas 

 bells. 



The daylight had faded into moonlight, as I turned for 

 home. The mioon, red through the smoke haze, wrapped the 

 bush path in mystic shadows, which seemed to hide all sorts 

 of wondrous secrets. In the distance a boobook owl called 

 softly; from the bushes close by came the stirrings and sleepy 

 chirpings of tired birds. A little cool whisper of a breeze ran 

 down the gully to tell of the approaching southerly ; when I 

 reached the top of the hill, the clump of tall apple-trees (Ango- 

 phora intermedia) that crowns the summit was waving 



