Metallic starlings seek safe sleeping-places among the mangroves, ere
they repair last year's villages, and join excitedly in the chorus; while
the great osprey wheels overhead, and the grey falcon sits on a bare
branch, still as a sentinel, each waiting for an opportunity to take toll
of the nutmeg pigeons. The channel-billed cuckoo shrieks her discordant
warning of the approaching wet season; and the scrub fowl utters those
far-off imitations of the exclamation of civilised hens. Sundown at
Kumboola towards the end of September, when the sea laps and murmurs
among the rocks, and great white pigeons gather in thousands on the dark
foliage, or "coo-hooing" and flapping, disappear beneath the thick leafy
canopy, and all the other birds are saying their good-nights, or
asserting their rights, or protesting against crowding or intrusion, is
an ever-to-be-remembered experience. Added to the cheerful presence of
the noisy birds, are the pleasant odours which spring from the jungle as
coolness prevails, and the flaming west gives a weird tint of red to the
outlines of the trees, and of purple to the drowsy sea.
Of entirely different character is the last of the satellites to be
mentioned, Wooln-garin.
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