The scene-shifter came softly "as the small rain upon the tender herb,"
but with an orchestra of his own. Years of observation have shown that the
weather does control the habits of some birds--birds of distinct and
regular methods of life. Two such are common--the nutmeg pigeon and
the metallic starling. Both species leave this part of the North
during the third week of March, flying in flocks to regions nearer
the equator. For several weeks the starlings train themselves for
the long Northern flight and its perils, dashing with impetuous
speed through the forest and wheeling up into the sky until they
disappear, to become visible again as black dots hurtling through
space when the sunlight plays on their glossy feathers as the course of
the flock is changed. With the rush of a wind of small measure but
immense velocity, the flock descends earthwards, among and over the
trees, perfecting itself by trials of endurance and intricate alertness.
The birds return during the first week in August, in small and silent
companies, to reoccupy favourite resorts in common. The nutmeg pigeons
are also of exact habit, the time for their return generally coinciding
with that of the starlings. This year (1916) both birds were noticed just
after the scene-shifter had swept the hills of mists, and now other birds
seem to have awakened to the conditions which the starlings and the
nutmegs brought with them from hotter lands. The swamp pheasants are
whooping and gurgling, and that semi-migratory fellow, the spangled
drongo--a flattering name, for he jangles but does not spangle--sits on
the slim branch of the Moreton Bay ash which held last year's nest and
chatters discordances in the very ears of his responsive mate. They will
start building a loose nest on the brittlest branch forthwith, and while
the lady sits on her three eggs he will screech defiances to the high
heavens and perform aerial gymnastics with delirious delight.