whether the temporary shock had only staggered him, or that it was nature's last effort, the edible one soared away far and fast, eventually disappearing from our gaze.
While on the subject of hawking, there is little doubt that the 'aguila' referred to might be trained to fly at the larger game—turkeys, geese, kangaroo, and emu—while the smaller falcons, which are sufficiently plentiful, might be equally effective in pursuit of the traditional heron. The beautiful blue crane of the colonists (Ardea Australis) is found in every streamlet and marsh, as also the spoonbill, the white crane (snowy of hue, and with curious fringing wing-feathers), not forgetting the bittern.
Young Australia, gentle or simple, might find worse employment than riding forth in the fresh morn of the early summer, with hawk on wrist, inhaling even this faintest flavour of the romance of the great days of chivalry.
On the broad, still reaches of the river, or the wide sheets of water artificially conserved, behold we the pelican, in no wise differing in appearance from the traditional dweller in the wilderness. Whether the Australian is unselfishly prodigal in the matter of heart's blood in favour of her young is difficult of proof, forasmuch as no living man, apparently, ever sets eyes on a youthful pelican. In the untrodden deserts which surround the heart of the continent is popularly deemed to lie the haunt of the brooding bird; and an Australian poetess has mourned the fate of the gallant brothers—bold and practised explorers—last seen on their way to the unknown, half-mystic region, 'where the pelican builds her nest.'
As the hot breath of the fast-coming summer proves yet more deadly to every green thing, the pelican flocks sail coastward in great numbers from their failing streams and marshes. With them comes the beautiful black swan—'rara avis in terra,' but here an everyday sight—graceful, with scarlet beak, wreathed neck, and 'pure cold webs'; the wild, musical note clanging from the soaring, swaying files cleaving the empyrean. Rarely -seen waders and swimmers are of the contingent if the 'weather holds dry'—a wayworn, far-travelled host, priceless to the naturalist could he but observe them.
Let but the stern drought continue unbroken, all-heedless of man and his great army of dependants, through the brief
