WILD LIFE IN TASMANIA, 
27 
beauties are not all straight up and down ; some run almost 
horizontally after the first few feet from the ground, and we 
may, if we please, scramble along one so inclined and take a 
seat in the feathery crown. And, by the way, there is some- 
thing to notice about this same crown. If we search carefully 
among the dead leaves and golden hair which protect the bases 
of the fronds, we shall find some creatures very much resem- 
bling the fresh water shrimp of the old country. They wriggle 
along sideways with great vigour, and soon bury themselves 
again in their moist retreat, but whether they pass their whole 
lives there in the fern tops, or at some period descend and live 
in the water, is a point which awaits solution. 
Leaving the elevated perch where we have been examining 
the small crustaceans, we arrive on terva firma and have not 
gone many yards before we notice a rather large speckled bird 
fly silentl}^ from a tree and begin to run about quickly among 
the dead leaves and over the logs. We recognise it as the bush 
thrush, and from its quick, excited manner, although it utters 
never a note, we make a shrewd guess that the nest is not far 
off. We examine the dog-wood tree out of which the bird flew, 
and discover that it forks at about eight feet from the ground, 
thence growing upwards as two trees. A stout piece of timber 
lies close by, and this we jam at an angle against the tree, and 
having by this means scrambled up high enough to get a peep 
into the fork, we find it occupied by a large, beautifully round 
nest, made chiefly of fibres from the stem of the old-man fern and 
moss. On the soft bottom of this comfortable habitation repose 
two rather large eggs, blotched all over with dull red. The 
character of this bird agrees well with its surroundings. Living 
in these majestic wilds, scarcely ever approaching the habita- 
tions of man, he goes about the duties of life in dignified silence, 
he vouchsafes no song to cheer his mate during the lonely hours 
of incubation, and she, in her turn, meets him with no feminine 
chatter when he comes laden with spoil from the bush. All 
our forest dwellers, though, have not this glorious attribute of 
silence, or whence these rasping, whining sounds which salute 
our ears ? To the waving head of yon graceful palm fern, erect 
and slim as the tree whose name it bears, we trace the distur- 
bance. There, sporting amid the drooping fronds, we discern a 
family of the fire-tailed finch, father, mother, and three or four 
young ones, from which latter proceed the peculiar noises, 
something like the rapid winding of a large watch, which first 
attracted our attention. How exquisitely beautiful, although 
so quiet in tone, are the markings on these same finches. The 
small, soft, grey and greenish feathers closely scored with dark 
wavy lines, while just above the tail is the on^ patch of bright 
colour from which the bird derives its name. They rapidly 
become familiar if taken young, and make pretty pets, going 
through as many amusing gambols as kittens. We wonder if 
their abode can be very far oflf, and casting our eyes here and 
