April 1 



T six o'clock this morning the sky was pink from rim to rim 

 with rosy clouds, that sent their glow on to the tips of the 

 treetops and wakened all the birds of the neighbourhood into 

 song. Not that there are very many birds about just now, for 

 the northward flight has been in progress for several weeks 

 past, and many of the birds have gone to warmer climes for 

 the winter months. The cuckoos have all left the neighbour- 

 hood, and we miss the ringing notes of the pallid and the brusih 

 cuckoos, and the melancholy wail of the bronze. The native 

 canaries, too, have departed northwards, and their running 

 song no longer makes music amongst the saplings in the gully. 

 Quite at the beginning of the month the blood-birds (red- 

 headed honey-eater) had taken their flight, and their gleaming 

 red and black shone no (longer amongst the gum-tips. 



But though so many birds have gone, there are still enough 

 left to greet the dawn with a chorus of song. The Jacky Win- 

 ters are gaining in vigour as the cool days approach, for their 

 song is always at its fullest and sweetest in the winter ; the blue 

 wrens, with their families, join in united efforts to swell the 

 chorus ; thrushes send their ringing notes across from tree to 

 tree ; razor-grinders utter their sweet, soft note, so different to 

 the whirring, grinding one which gives them their name ; and 

 the kookaburras are most insistent of all in their rejoicing that 

 the cool days are coming. 



