THE BIRDS OF AUSTRALIA. 
he differentiated it under the name White-headed Rufous Eagle. As in that 
work he gave no Latin equivalents, it was left for Gould in 1838 to name the 
Australian form ; it is now obvious that though the type specimen is labelled 
New South Wales, the type-locality is now Queensland, viz., Moreton Bay. 
The most vivid, realistic and interesting account of this species is that 
given by Banfield in his valuable study entitled, “ Confessions of a Beach- 
comber.” This account appeared in the Emu, Vol. VI., p. 16, 1906, and was 
copied in the Austr. Mus. Spec. Gat., no. 1, Vol. III., p. 224, 1911, but is still 
worthy of reproduction in its entirety here. 
“ All the forest brood do not plot mutual slaughter. Some live in strict 
amity. Here, on this Moreton Bay Ash, taken advantage of (as a nesting 
tree) by the Shining Calornis, a White-headed Rufous-backed Sea-Eagle 
nests, and the graceful fierce-looking pair come and go among the glittering 
noisy throng without exciting any special comment. Now the White- 
headed Sea-Eagle, with its sharp incurved beak, terrible talons, and armour- 
plated legs, is a friend to all the little birds. They know and respect and 
almost venerate him. A horde of them never seeks to scare him away 
with angry scolding and fierce assault, as it does the cruel Falcon and 
the daring Goshawk. Domestic fowls learn of his ways, and are wise in 
their fearlessness of him. But I was not well assured of the reason for 
the trustfulness and admiration of the smaller birds for the fierce-looking 
fellow (the Rufous-backed one), who spends most of his time fishing, until 
direct and conclusive evidence was forthcoming. Two days of rough weather, 
and the blue bay had become discoloured with mud churned up by the sea, 
and the Eagle found fishing poor and unremunerative sport. Even his keen 
eyesight could not distinguish in the mucky water the coming and going of 
the fish. Just near the house is a small area of partly-cleared flat, and there 
we saw the brave fellow roaming and swooping about with more than usual 
interest in the affairs of dry land. At this time of the year green snakes are 
fairly plentiful. Harmless and handsome, they prey upon small birds and 
frogs, and the Eagle had abandoned his patrol of the sad-hued water to take 
toll of the snakes. After a graceful swoop down to the tips of a low-growing 
bush, he alighted on the dead branch of a Bloodwood, one hundred and fifty 
yards or so away, and, with the help of a telescope, his occupation was 
revealed: he was greedily tearing to pieces a wriggling snake, gulping it in 
three-quarter yard lengths. Here was the reason for the trustfulness and 
respect of the little birds. The Eagle was destroying the chief bugbear of 
their existence, the sneaking greeny-yellowy murderer of their kind and eater 
of their eggs, whose colour and form so harmonise with leaves and thin 
branches, that he constantly evades the sharpest-eyed of them all, and 
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