THE VICTORIAN NATURALIST. 



he&d of Lyre-bird Gully, and followed down stream as best we 

 could until the coveted nest came in sight. It was built in a 

 silent glen, wherein grew Sassafras of fragrant leaf and tall tree 

 ferns, whose dark green and spreading fronds formed a pleasant 

 screen from the noonday sun. The creek rippled softly over 

 mossy boulders, and the dense, humid atmosphere had caused a 

 mantle of greenness to be spread over everything. The trunks of 

 the trees and fallen logs were bearded with long strands of golden- 

 green moss, and high up in the branches grew immense Staghorn 

 Ferns, Polypodium punctatum, Thun. A big Tree Fern, Dick- 

 sonia billardieri, F. v. M., had fallen across the creek, and upon 

 this natural bridge, but resting against the trunk of another fern 

 tree growing alongside the prostrate one in mid-stream, the Lyre- 

 birds had built their large, oval stick nest, interwoven with fern 

 rootlets, stringy leaves, moss, and sand. 



Mr. Dodd had told us that this nest contained a young bird 

 about six weeks old, and as we approached its home the nestling 

 gave vent to a series of weird and piercing screeches, bringing the 

 frantic mother to within a few feet of us, where she remained, 

 running up and down the swaying frond of a tree fern, uttering 

 anxious clucking notes the while, and with her long, drooping, 

 copper-coloured tail feathers gleaming like burnished metal in the 

 stray sunbeams which filtered through the leafy canopy of the trees. 



Our photographer concealed himself near the nest, after secur- 

 ing several pictures of it and the nestling, and waited for an 

 opportunity to snap the adult birds. But he gave up the vain 

 attempt after three hours' waiting, as we had to get back to camp 

 before dark. 



So shy was the female Lyre-bird after her first fear for her 

 young one had passed off that the merest movement of a shadow 

 sent her instantly floating to cover. I say floating advisedly, for 

 the flight of the Lyre-bird, like all else pertaining to it, is graceful 

 and beautiful. You disturb one feeding on a fallen tree trunk, 

 tearing off the decayed bark in great pieces with its powerful 

 claws in search of food, and it rises noiselessly, fading away 

 down the green aisle of the forest, with the sunlight making 

 resplendent the trailing golden-brown tail feathers — a graceful 

 form, floating through the trees without sound. 



Although we were disappointed in securing some of our coveted 

 pictures, we did not return home empty, and hope to succeed 

 better during the coming season. 



In conclusion. I may state that the object of our week-end 

 excursions to Olinda Vale is not to collect specimens, but to 

 observe and photograph the living wild creatures at work and at 

 play in their native haunts. The scientific naturalist may con- 

 sider this neither a useful nor a laudable object, but it is certainly 

 full of fascination, and we are content to let the nomenclator and 



