REMINISCENCES FROM THE MELBOURNE ZOO. 
63 
ever been heard to say a good word for this pariah among Australian 
birds. The crow was a wild one that had been hurt at the point of 
one wing, and was unable to fly, but by dint of many attempts at 
hopping managed to get on low spreading branches of trees and thus 
hop higher and higher until he reached a convenient perch for roosting 
at night. He made himself quite at home in the gardens, and adopted 
“Shall I never see my loved, my lost Lenore?” 
the role of Good Samaritan to a great many captives. He tried his 
best to make love to the cranes, but those high and mighty birds preferred 
going hungry before accepting gifts from a blackfellow, and all his 
thousand attempts never broke down their prejudice. But with the 
raven it was a case of birds of a feather — or birds of a color, from the 
beginning. They became the fastest of friends, and their good under- 
standing lasted right to the day of the poor old crow’s mysterious 
