The Zoologist— September, 1874. 4141 



silver, silence is golden ! But although it seems impossible to 

 write down bird-sounds, yet a notion of their effect on the air-waves 

 might be hazarded. For the purpose of explanation, let us suppose 

 the existence of an undisturbed mass of air ; could not the figures 

 described therein by the calls of various birds be idealised into 

 forms, and a symbolic rendering of the sounds of bird-language be 

 produced ? As illustrating the meaning in view, let us suppose that 

 the sharp jarring scream of the falcon would be represented by a 

 figure somewhat like a barbed lance; the call of the cuckoo {Chryso- 

 coccyx) would be pictured in gently sweeping curves ; whilst an 

 acute angle would typify the scream of the weka {Ocydromus). 



From the notes and observations I have made, I have no doubt 

 that birds breed here in every month of the year ; and according to 

 generally accepted opinion, therefore, we ought not at any time to 

 lose the music of the woods. But there are active agencies at 

 work which are quickly rendering whole districts comparatively 

 mute, and these will be presently touched upon. At night we hear 

 the sounds of birds high up in the air, as flock after flock seek the 

 coast or the brackish waters of the shallow mere. These notes are 

 probably, as Gilbert While said, a safeguard against dispersion in 

 the dark, or may convey some intimation of any change in the order 

 of flight; they are usually briefly yet deliberately sounded. Sea- 

 fowl are far from silent when on their course, ascending rivers or 

 roaming above the harbours and bays that indent the shore. Living 

 close to the beach in a sheltered nook in Port Cooper, at no great 

 distance from the extensive area of Lake Ellesmere, it may be that 

 I have been more than usually attentive to these wandering voices, 

 since ievr woodland birds now frequent the slopes of our picturesque 

 hills, like many other districts once clothed with stately trees and 

 bright-leaved shrubs. Shade and shelter gone, bare stems with 

 whitened tops remain, and point to the work of the ruthless bush- 

 man. Often at night, about the second week in January, the shrill 

 piping of the oystercatcher (Hcematopus) is heard, and, soon aftei-, 

 the yelping cry of the stilt {Himantopus), apparently from a great 

 height. These waders are amongst the earliest to quit their inland 

 breeding haunts and bring their pied broods towards the coast: 

 they are on their way to join or assist in forming the large flocks 

 which during the autumn and winter spread themselves along the 

 shores and over the flats and harbours, where abundance of food 

 can be procured. 



SECOND SERIES — VOL. IX. 2 X 



