122 CONFESSIONS OF A BEACHCOMBER 



Garbed in rich olive green, royal blue, and bright yellow, 

 and of a quick and lively disposition, small as he is, he is 

 always before his public, never forgetful of his appearance, 

 or regardless of his rights. Feeding on honey and on 

 insects which frequent honey-supplying flowers, the sun- 

 bird is generally seen amid surroundings quite in keeping 

 with the splendour of his plumage. The best part of his life 

 is passed among blossoms, and he seems to partake of their 

 beauty and frailness. The gold of the gin-gee, the reds of 

 the flame-tree, the umbrella-tree, and of the single and 

 double hibiscus r I'eflected from his shining feathers, as 

 he flutters and darts among the blooms, often sipping on 

 the wing after the habit of the humming-bird — which he 

 resembles even to the characteristic expansion of the tail 

 feathers. When in September the flame-tree is a dome of 

 red, sun-birds gather by the score — the gayest of all the 

 revellers. Uncommon length of bill enables them to probe 

 recesses of flowers forbidden others, and they seem proud 

 of the superiority. The varied honey-eater visits flower 

 after flower with something of method. The sun-bird 

 flashes from raceme to raceme, sampling a dozen blooms, 

 while his noisy rival sips with the air of a connoisseur at 

 one. There is a spell in the nectar of the flame-tree as 

 irresistibly attractive to taste of birds as the colour is to the 

 sight of man. Although the tree bursts into bloom with 

 truly tropical ardour, they await the coming banquet with 

 unaffected impatience. Then one of the prettiest frolics of 

 the sun-bird is revealed. Time cannot lag with such gay, 

 saucy creatures, so while they wait half a dozen or more 

 congregate in a circle and with uplifted heads directed 

 towards a common centre sing their song in unison. 

 Whether the theme of the song is of protest against the 

 tardiness of the tree, or of thanks in anticipation, or ot 

 exultation in race, or of rivalry, matters not ; but one is 

 inclined to the last theory, for none but males take part in 

 it. The sun glints on their burnished breasts, their throats 

 throb, their long bills quaver with enthusiastic effort, and 

 the song still matters not, for it is but a thin twittering. 



