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—
"And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,
And every day, I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating."
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 voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,