THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 55 



Through a colonnade in Birdsville flows a beau- 

 tiful stream. It has many phases and tones. 

 Here, where it slips over flat, moss-covered rocks, 

 are whispering and purling sounds. Further on, 

 hollow laughter is heard, as the water runs under 

 mimic caverns. Smiles ripple over the transpar- 

 ent faces of little pools, then the waters break 

 forth in high glee and skip along on their journey. 

 Suddenly there comes to you a sound as of the 

 clapping of myriads of tiny hands, as the merry 

 drops splash on the boulders and go dancing and 

 whirling in winding column to the Charles. 



On the banks of this stream, half hidden in an 

 alder clump, I often linger to watch the bathers. 



The different species of finches and thrushes 

 are confident and bold in their approach to the 

 bath, but many of the wood warblers draw near 

 with the greatest caution, flitting like shadows 

 amongst the shrubbery, and peering at me with 

 many graceful turnings of their pretty heads, and 

 daintily choosing steps of every convenient little 

 twig, in their descent to the stream. 



There are, however, in some species exceptions 

 to this rule. The black-and-white creeper, for 

 example, hops along the bank till he finds a suit- 

 able place, where he plunges in, and seems to be 

 as cool a bather as the common song-sparrow. 



After following the course of the stream, I 

 turned to walk across an old pasture, toward a 



