326



Mrs. Katharine Currey,



very short, the wings and feathers were dark blue and well de¬

veloped, the breast black, and the beak was very large. At a first

glance, in the boy’s hand, I thought it was a young porphyrio, as

the boy said it had come from near the lake ; however, on taking

it in my hand I soon saw my mistake.


I fed it entirely on fruit, with now and then insects, larvae,

etc. At first it seemed particularly fond of a forest fruit, like a large

damson ; later these were difficult to get and I tried bananas, pine

apple, pawpaw, but it did not care for any of these, then guavas

came in and it quite liked these again, but they went off and I could

find nothing it really liked, also I had to leave it to the tender

mercies of a boy, only seeing it during week ends, till on the 25th of

July it died, after having been kept for just five months.


It proved a most delightfully tame bird and would sit quite

happily on my hand or shoulder, nibbling at my ear or hair while I

walked about the garden. One thing that struck me was the length

of time it took before it could fly, possibly it was weak from unsuit¬

able food, but it could hop and climb long before it could fly and I

came to the conclusion that these birds leave the nest some time

before they can fly and keep among the thick leafy branches and

so escape observation. Although so common around here, I never

remember seeing any flying about except full-grown birds and my

tame bird, when it died, at least six months old, was only about

half-grown, with the colours just appearing on the underside. The

crest had grown but was only composed of long black feathers,

not the beautiful crest that the adult bird has.


The photographs show it at two months, three months, and

four months old, presuming it was one month old when brought to

me.



BREAKFAST GUESTS.


By Katharine Currey.


Our little friend, the great tit, has now been our breakfast

guest for some time and his friendship towards us has ripened into

confidence, almost, but not quite, reaching the pitch at which the

human hand is no longer an object of terror. Regularly every



