M3



lined - with - feathers affairs built in the Virginia creeper, in

practically the same spot, the later eggs being laid in a nest

attached to but just below the first, perhaps a trifle more

protected from the rain, and with the aperture more difficult of

detection.


The male sat on the eggs during the greater part of the

day: when the nest was in danger he always seemed to be in it.

I think usually the female took a spell the first part of the

morning ; at night, both, I suppose, slept in the nest. In the

last nest doubtless they were joined at night b}^ the young bird,

for in the garden the father was never seen to drive his son.


The spirit and bravery of this bird were a feature in the

character of the species which was quite new to me. During the

winter they have been qniet and peaceable with all birds but the

little son.


All three passed the winter in the house, and are still alive

and well. They never associated with the other birds, but kept

much to themselves. Not that, as a rule, they kept all together.

The parents were inseparable, sitting side by side on a tall

eucalyptus tree ; they kept quite quiet, wisely regarding the

winter as a season of rest ; they had done their work right

valiantly, and were recuperating. Not so the baby. Dike other

silly young people, he has been wanting to nest for some months,

and generally sat in another tall eucalyptus tree, opposite his

parents, singing away to the wife of his imagination,—for which

tomfoolery he occasionally received a whack over the head from

his sober-minded pater.


One day, an interesting conversation took place in the

eucalyptus tree, between the father and mother, of which I may

venture to give a translation for the benefit of those who are not

conversant with the language of this species :—


“Dad.” “Well, Dove?” “I’ve been thinking, Dad.”

“ Don’t be silly, Dove.” “ I do believe that you and I have done

something that no Cordon has ever done before.” “ Think so,

Dove ? ” “ Who ever heard of a Cordon rearing a baby in this


shivering country, eh, Dad ! ” “ Perhaps not, Dove. What does


the Avicultural say ? ” “ Says that the babies all die off like flies;


s’pose, Dad, it’s too cold for the feathering, or the3 r don’t mix the

pap proper.” “ Aha ! getting conceited in your old age, my

Dove.” “Well, now; just look at him ! was there ever such a

Bleu ? and as like his Dad as two Cordons.” “ Ahem ! ”


“Dad.” “Yes, Dove?” “We must get a wife for our

Tittle Boy Blue.” “ Cold, isn’t it, Dove ?” “ All the more need



