HIGH NOON AT WIMBLEDON 
131 
a similar curve in white. Over each eye is a very distinct 
whitish curved line of some length, on account of which it has 
been proposed to substitute the specific name supercilinsns or 
“eyebrowed,” for the present rather vague name austfalasiana. 
The hen bird has scarcely a trace of gold upon the wings, and 
the collar-marks with her are much fainter. The “Painter's” 
ordinary note is a loud cheerful whistle, one of the most inspirit- 
ing of bush-sounds, heard early in the morning and late at 
evening, as well as at frequent intervals during the day. While 
feeding among the flowers he frequently accents a single note, 
tchook ! of complacency, as well as other more indefinite sounds, 
“ the low love-language of the bird,” to which our vowels and 
consonants could scarce do justice. 
Last and smallest of this fascinating group comes the 
delicate spinebill {Acanthorhynchus tenuirostris) as slim and grace- 
ful almost as the fairy-swallow, and having the evolutions of a 
large humming-bird. Often have we stood entranced while 
watching this bright-hued little phantom poise on quivering 
wings just in front of one of the racemes of pink blossom, testing 
each in turn with its delicate bill, fine as a long curved needle, 
for the drop of precious nectar which there lies hid, and which 
is whisked out with inconceivable rapidity by the tufted brush- 
like extremity of the extensive tongue. Having' exhausted the 
raceme, our spinebill will dart into the thick of the bush to 
frolic with his mate or to drive away an imaginary foe, uttering 
the while a quick high pip-pip-pip-pip-pip, almost as piercing 
and needle-like as the bill whence issues the sound. 
Our smallest of feathered flower-haunters has a head almost 
black, some dark brown plumage upon the back, while a large 
portion of the under surface is a rich chestnut ; the throat and 
upper breast are pure white, save for one remarkable little patch 
right in the centre, as if a dark thumb had pressed there some- 
what heavily. 
H. Stuart Dove, F.Z.S.. 
September g, igoo. Table Cape, 
Tasmania. 
HIGH NOON AT WIMBLEDON. 
N this July day the temperature is the highest for igoo, 
yet let no one say that there are no cool places to be 
found in suburban London. It is near midday, and 
we are standing at the southern end of Wimbledon 
Common, that magnificent heathy waste which stretches three 
miles, from Coombe to Putney Hill. By this southern margin 
there is a turfy glade separating the Common from the enclosed 
pastures of the Warren Farm. The adjacent field contains oaks 
and a few fruit trees ; in the boundary hedge are more oaks and 
