JUNE 95 



wattles coming into bloom in the gardens along the road which 

 completed the illusion, but certainly I had a distinct spring- 

 feeling in my blood, and I meant to see if there was any sign 

 of spring in the bush. 



My last bush walk had been almost a sad one, everything 

 was so dry ; but the rain had come since then, and after it the 

 heavy dews, and I felt justified in expecting to see some flowers. 

 It was pleasant after my last crackly tramp to feel the leaves 

 soft and moist underfoot, so I chose the deepest and dampest 

 gully I could find. As I picked my way along the rocky path 

 that could scarcely be called a track, pink crowea glowed on ail 

 sides, and, though I knew crowea to be truly a winter flower, 

 my hopes of spring blooms ran high. And I had not hoped 

 in vain ; for out of the sheltered tangle, still dripping with the 

 morning dew, peeped many shy flowers, not yet in their full 

 spring splendour, but giving promise of the glory to come. 

 Bush things do not seem to fully recognise the existence of 

 a winter season. On the bleak hill-tops they may be suppress- 

 ed, but give them a little shelter and a little moisture and they 

 will always do their best to make June look like August. 



Three wattles in three different stages showed up boldly 

 against the green background of the creek bed. The slender- 

 leaved wattle was nearly over, only a few pale blossoms re- 

 maining, but the Port Jackson wattle was still in full swing, 

 Many of its balls of yellow floss had been matted together by 

 the rain, but fresh clusters of a deeper gold told a tale of 



