128 THE BOOK OF BIRDS 



The little Cockatoo, when first he shuffles along to 

 the mouth of the hole where he was born, must feel 

 very much like a little boy or girl who has been born 

 in a lighthouse, and has never yet gone ashore. When 

 he looks over the edge he sees such a fearful drop beneath 

 him that he shrinks back in dismay, and wonders how 

 ever he will get away when the time comes to make the 

 venture. 



So, naturalists tell us, the young Cockatoos take 

 plenty of time in growing up. " I have known eggs to be 

 in the nest early in August," says one, "and then have 

 seen the young birds still in the nest in December." They 

 wait until their wing feathers are fully grown, and even 

 then they will sit on the edge of the hole where they have 

 lived so long, very disinclined to launch themselves into 

 the air. The parent birds do their best to tempt 

 and encourage them to fly. And at last one spreads 

 his wings and flutters off, to perch on a neighbouring 

 tree. 



"About the end of November," says the Australian 

 writer whom I have quoted above, " the young ones are 

 nearly all flying, and all over the Cockatoo country you 

 can see little groups of three and four birds, parents and 

 young, perched on the leafy top of a tall eucalyptus, or 

 feeding on the seeds of dry wild grass, or rooting up the 

 wild geranium." 



By January the last cowardly little nestling has 

 plucked up courage to leave the sheltering hole in the 

 tree, and by the end of the month the whole tribe begins 

 to gather into flocks according to its custom. " Then you 

 will see huge flocks of snow-white Cockatoos circling over- 

 head, and you will hear them also, for their screams are 

 deafening. One of the prettiest sights is a flight of 



