56 THE AUSTRALIAN NATURALIST, 
The smell of this wood surpasses that of the beautiful Al- 
bizzia pruinosum. Once, in all ignorance, drying a large 
quantity of the former flower, I thought there was a dead 
cat under the floor. 
The handsome Geijera salicifolia is a mass of branch- 
ing white, and Rhodosphaera rhodanthema looks like drifts 
of pink coral. Every twig on the *possum nut (Rapanea 
variabilis) is a clustering mass of tiny flowers. And the 
small-leaved variety of Cupania anacardioides is bright 
with its small yellow bells. (Please would somebody tell 
me, have the small-leaved and the large-leaved varieties 
of this tree only one name between them? Or has the 
small one a name of its own?) 
Some of the Melaleucas and Callistemons are flower- 
ing. Last summer a small shrub of Callistemon, growing 
low over the creek, was in flower (I do not know its name 
—a stragely variety with red flowers), and, floating above 
it, and resting upon it, were fully two dozen great black 
and green butterflies—Troides richmondius. Slowly, 
lazily, with their soft wings scarcely moving, they would 
drop to the sand below, or cling momentarily to the reeds 
that dipped to the water’s edge, then drift dreamily back 
to their nest amongst the red flowers. 
There have been a great number of mistletoe birds, 
Dicaeum lirundinacewm, about these last two seasons. 
They search for insects in the shrubs about the garden; 
also come for mulberries and privet berries when these 
are ripe. 
Last November a pair built in a wattle tree in the 
garden. For some days they merely looked for a build- 
ing site, singing ceaselessly as they flew, with quick jerk- 
ing flight, between the garden and the swamp. But once 
they decided which tree to live in they lost no time about 
building. 
The poor little hen did all the work; she carried the 
materials, and wove the wee, white nest, while her beauti- 
fully-dressed mate sat on a bough and watched her, sing- 
ing at the top of his tiny voice, and telling her the way 
she should do it; and every time she flew backwards and 
forwards with building materials he flew too, but he 
wouldn’t soil his dainty beak and claws with work. 
She was a perfect slave—poor little bird!—but she 
seemed perfectly happy. In three days she had built the 
outer part of the nest; in four more she had added a lin- 
ing of soft brown felt. The three white eggs were laid 
