It must not be thought that all the notes of these most engaging birds, symbolic of light in plumage and in flight, are shrill and strident.  When they feed—­and they seem always to be feeding or carrying food—­their chatter is perpetual and varied in tone.  Occasionally a male bird sets himself to beguile the time with song.  Then his flame-red eyes flash with ardour, his head is thrown back, a sparkling ruffle appears on his otherwise satiny smooth neck, and the tune resembles that of a well-taught canary—­more fluty but briefer.  But the song is only for the ears of those who know how to overcome timidity and shyness.  Birds naturally so impetuous are restless and uneasy under observation.  One must pose in silence until his presence is forgotten or ignored.  Then the delicious melody, the approving comments of the songster’s companions, and the efforts of ambitious youngsters to imitate and excel, are all part of a quaint entertainment.

THE NESTFUL TREE

All the forest brood do not plot mutual slaughter.  Some live in strict amity.  Here in the Moreton Bay ash, taken advantage of 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.  Of course it would be impossible to detect any certain note of remonstrance, for the smaller birds are generally commenting on something or other in acidulous tones.

Another occupant of this nestful tree is the sulphur-crested cockatoo, whose eggs are laid deep down in a hollow.  Two or three hundred of the shining colonists, a brood of sea-eagles, white-headed, snowy-breasted and red-backed, and a couple, perhaps, three, screeching white cockatoos, represent the annual output of this single tree, in addition, of course, to its own crop of sweet savoured flowers (on which birds, bees, beetles and butterflies, and flying-foxes feast) and seeds in thousands in cunning cups.

“Stately face and magnanimous minde”

How feeble and ludicrous are the voices of the fierce hawks and eagles.  The white-headed sea-eagle’s puking discordant twang, the feeble cheep of the grey falcon—­the cry of a sick and scared chicken—­the harsh protest of the osprey, are sounds distinctive but frail, conveying no notion whatever of the demeanour and characteristics of the birds.

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.  He has the “stately face and magnanimous minde” that old writers were wont to ascribe to the Basilisk, the King of Serpents.  They know and respect, almost venerate him.  A horde of them never seeks to scare him away with angry scolding and feeble assaults, as it does the cruel falcon and the daring goshawk.  Domestic fowls learn of his ways, and are wise in their