The Emu. 
Along the red-berried African box hedge, at first, but soon to 
come closer, feed the Parrots ; just now some half-dozen Nun- 
garas," or Mallee Parrots, are there — green, with a collarette 
of whitish feathers, and a yellow bar across their breasts. 
Such a noise again ! The Gidgeeais " (Apostles) are going, 
beak and claw, for some interloper. No wonder the dowdy 
things are jealous. The intruders are two Billai," the most 
gorgeous birds in our bush (Red-winged Lories) — such green ! 
such crimson ! as vivid in contrast as the leaves of a Mexican 
fire plant, which our little darkies always call the crimson-wing 
plant. 
When they are startled the Parrot cry is harsh, but in repose 
their ** Chickle, chuckle, click, click " mouth cries are Yather 
sweet. 
There is the Bower Bird off again, I expect to his play- 
ground. He has one in a clump of dheal trees not far from here. 
It is made of two leaning walls of grass, tent topped and open at 
each end for him to run backwards and forwards, playing with 
his heaped-up pieces of glass, bones, and stones at each entrance. 
The darkies say in the " dark backward " VVeedah " (Bower Bird) 
was a great doctor, and these curios are his magic-working 
charms. 
All his skill seems to be expended on his playgrounds, his nest 
being an insignificant affair, wherein he possibly shows his 
wisdom, the insignificance of his nest probably helping to protect 
his pretty mottled eggs from the observation of the egg-collecting 
fiends. 
There is always one or other of my birds twittering about. 
The pretty little " Whit Whits," with their dashes of red and 
yellow on their drab plumage, build in the verandah creepers ; so 
do the Whitethroats and Fan-tails. The yellow-billed Miners 
come and go, all quite at home. Looking through my window as 
I write I see pecking away within a few yards of the front step 
Galahs, Nungaras, Buln Bulns, Gidgeeais, Parrots, and Pigeons, 
including Gooboothoo, the little Ground Doves, who, despite 
their mild Quaker maid-like expression, are most quarrelsome. 
I can hear the Butcher Birds whistling, and now for the greatest 
treat of all — the Magpie is going to sing. His impudent air has 
gone ; he is just a troubadour of the bush with raisin-coloured 
eyes, who, as his dulcet notes ring out, would sooth the weariest 
prisoner to forget his woes. 
Such songs must surely make for righteousness in a world 
whose best soul tonic is joy. 
That gush of joyous music calms us into a belief in halycon 
days, and, as if to point the belief, on to a near trellis comes low- 
flying Gougourgahgah, one of the Halcyonidae. 
Sweet the day may be, with its day's eyes, as Chaucer called 
them, winking at us from amongst the blue-flowered crowfoot 
and scented herbage, but no longer calm. The quaint old 
