class="poem">

and to such a one we can say—

It is time that we Australians fought against the generally received opinion that the dominant note of our scenery is weird melancholy. This is the note sounded mainly by those who were bred elsewhere, who came to us with other associations and other traditions, and sojourned among us. It will not be the opinion of the native-born when they find appropriate speech.

This little book should do much to popularize bird-study and to spread a knowledge of our common birds among our people. I hope devoutly that an effort will be made to give them suitable names. We should give them names a poet or a child can use. A Chaucer poring lovingly over his favorite flower, the daisy, could call it by a name which is itself full of poetry. Even the unimaginative clown, Nick Bottom, could sing of

And a Burns can invoke the Throstle in lines as musical as the song of the bird itself—"And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa'."

But how shall an Australian bard sing of "The Red-rumped Acanthiza," or of that delightful songster, "The Rufous-breasted Thickhead"? Australian Nature-poetry will be handicapped until our children give names like "Bobolink," and "Chickadee," and "Whip-poor-will," and "Jacky Winter," to our birds.

"Oriel," in the Argus, some time ago, showed how hard it is to write of love's young dream in Australian verse.

It surely would not be amiss if the Bird Observers' Clubs throughout Australia, and the Royal Australasian Ornithologists' Union, enlisted the aid of the State Education Departments, and endeavored to find out what names the children use for the birds of their district. Executive committees upon bird names are good; but a good name is not evoked by arguments in committee. It ofttimes comes from the happy inspiration of some child who loves the bird. At present the names given by classifiers are often an offence. A few evenings ago I was charmed with an unaccustomed song coming from out a big pittosporum tree in my garden at Kew. I took careful note of the little warbler, and then consulted Mr. Leach's Descriptive List. Judge of my satisfaction when I found that my little friend was "The Striated Field Wren or Stink Bird"!

The Australian boy is responding splendidly to the Nature-study movement. Bird observers tell me that shy native birds, formerly unknown near the haunts of men, are making their appearance, feeling safer now from molestation. Nest hunting for the sake of egg spoliation is happily becoming rarer, although children are developing keener eyes for nests. To-day every country school has its nests under loving observation for the purposes of bird-study and of bird-protection. Walt Whitman might have been describing many a Victorian school boy when he wrote—

This loving study must bear good fruit. If we believe the scientific men, Australia is, par excellence, the land of birds, song-birds, plumage-birds, and birds of wonderful interest, such as the Satin Bower Bird. The collection of Australian birds in our National Museum at Melbourne is certainly one of the finest sights of the city, and it should be studied by all who wish to know how favored this continent is in bird distribution. But we must get to know and to love our feathered friends. Mr. Leach in his lecture has dwelt sufficiently on the economic and scientific value of bird-study. Let me enter a plea for bird-study as a source of æsthetic pleasure. Before our Australian birds can be to us what the Thrush and the Blackbird and the Linnet and the Lark and the Nightingale are to the British boy, we must have a wealth of association around them from song and story. And this association must grow up with us from childhood if it is to make the strongest appeal to us. It can rarely be acquired in later life. British birds owe much to the poets for the charm that surrounds them. When I heard the Nightingale in England, although I had no association with it gathered from my boyhood's days, I heard more than the bird's song. I was listening to Keats and Wordsworth and Shakespeare as well. There is something very fine in the thought that such bird songs go on for ever, that these immortal birds are "not made for death," that

The Nightingale's song, as a bird song, I thought disappointing. I remember having the same feeling with regard to the Thrush and Blackbird. The charm of their songs is largely in the associations they evoke. Our city children are now growing up in familiarity with these two birds, which are becoming as common in our gardens as in England. And wherever they go they carry so much that is fine in literature with them. But there has not yet been time for our native birds to endear themselves to us. And so we hear only their song. Wise Shakespeare says—