Marcus Clarke wrote of the Laughing Jackasses as bursting into "horrible peals of semi-human laughter." But then Marcus Clarke was English-bred, and did not come to Australia till he was eighteen years old. It makes all the difference in our appreciation of bird or tree or flower to have known it as a boy. I venture to think no latter-day Australian who has grown up with our Kookaburra can have any but the kindliest of feelings for this feathered comedian. For myself, I confess that I find his laughter infectious, and innumerable times he has provoked me into an outburst as hearty and as mirthful as his own. More than half of our pleasure is due to the fact that the bird is "The same that in my schoolboy days I listened to." and to such a one we can say-- "I can listen to thee yet, Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again." It is time that we Australians fought against the generally received opinion that the dominant note of our scenery is weird melancholy. This is the note sounded mainly by those who were bred elsewhere, who came to us with other associations and other traditions, and sojourned among us. It will not be the opinion of the native-born when they find appropriate speech. "Whence doth the mournful keynote start? From the pure depths of Nature's heart? Or, from the heart of him who sings, And deems his hand upon the strings, Is Nature's own?" This little book should do much to popularize bird-study and to spread a knowledge of our common birds among our people. I hope devoutly that an effort will be made to give them suitable names. We should give them names a poet or a child can use. A Chaucer poring lovingly over his favorite flower, the daisy, could call it by a name which is itself full of poetry. Even the unimaginative clown, Nick Bottom, could sing of "The Ouzel Cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The Throstle with his note so true, The Wren with little quill, The Finch, the Sparrow, and the Lark, The plain-song Cuckoo gray." And a Burns can invoke the Throstle in lines as musical as the song of the bird itself--"And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa'." But how shall an Australian bard sing of "The Red-rumped Acanthiza," or of that delightful songster, "The Rufous-breasted Thickhead"? Australian Nature-poetry will be handicapped until our children give names like "Bobolink," and "Chickadee," and "Whip-poor-will," and "Jacky Winter," to our birds. "Oriel," in the _Argus_, some time ago, showed how hard it is to write of love's young dream in Australian verse. "Sweetheart, we watched the evening sky grow pale, And drowsy sweetness stole away our senses, While ran adown the swamp the Pectoral Rail, The shy Hypotaenidia philippinensis.