OCTOBER IN NEW ZEALAND. 
91 
the tufts of curly white new feathers, bearing a fanciful resem- 
blance to the tie of a black-coated clergyman. Among the 
ancient Maories the tui was a favourite cage bird. His powers 
of mimicry are considerable. I have sometimes heard even wild 
birds imitating the grunting of pigs in the “bush.” Though 
sometimes living for years in confinement, yet usually convulsive 
fits cause death within the first twelve months. 
In the open country, from clumps of tall veronica and tutu, I 
hear all round me the shining cuckoo’s plaintive oft-repeated 
whistle ; the long-tailed cuckoo is rarer with us, only once 
within the last hour have I heard its strange, harsh cry. I have 
never seen this latter bird in my life, indeed, both are shy and 
to be seen far less seldom than the British cuckoo. Rising with 
a twitter, a flock of male goldfinches pass over my head suddenly. 
Then a cicada shrills on my back like an insane Waterbury 
watch running down. These cheerful insects love the hottest 
banks, and are very fond, too, of perching on a passing rider’s hat 
or sleeves. Over a shallow rippling brook hover bee-hawks 
(libellula), and delicate blue water-flies, their wings, when at 
rest, curiously folded on one side of the body. A few small white 
moths flutter aimlessly among the karamu boughs, and the fan- 
tails never seem to tire of their airy convolutions over the stream 
where the midges dance. In a fuchsia bush, about five yards to 
my right, two wax-eyes have their nest. Within are three 
diminutive blue eggs. These pretty little birds are very gentle 
and tame. Often they smooth each other’s plumes, or sit close 
alongside one another like love-birds on a perch, showing no 
alarm at my presence. At earliest dawn I have noticed them 
in the dew-soaked tutu bushes, communicating to each other by 
means of a sort of whisper-song, hardly audible even at two 
yards’ distance. Everything now seems to be happy and alive 
in the fuller spring, and these are but a few of the more promi- 
nent features in the natural history of October. 
H. Guthrie-Smith. 
A Fact in Cat Life. — The autumn of 187— was very wet, rains had been 
most heavy, and the river near our old home overflowed its boundaries far. Only 
a narrow field and a gravel walk separated the river from our garden. At that 
time we had a clever cat, some years old, called “ Reekie.” When the river 
began to cover the field, Reekie was out taking a walk ; the water covered the 
field, then the gravel walk, then the garden, which is a long one, and rapidly so 
increased in volume and depth that the steps from the back door (rather a long 
flight) were under water. We called Reekie from the verandah of the dining-room 
window. No Reekie appeared, but presently a curious object appeared swim- 
ming up the garden of the next house ; this proved to be Reekie on the back of a 
small black pig. Reekie jumped from the pig’s back on to his own verandah, and 
the pig was also saved — taken in next door, flow did the pig know where to 
come with his burden ? How did Reekie instruct it where to bring him ? Surely 
animals must, in their own manner, communicate their knowledge and thoughts, 
else Reekie must have been drowned. M. Gardner. 
