s at the camps of bushmen.

"That beautiful bright thing I brought from a camp a mile away," said a
bird, indicating a tag from a cake of tobacco.

"But it isn't so pretty as mine," said another, pointing to the glass
stopper of a sauce bottle.

"Or mine," chimed in another bird, as it claimed a bright piece of tin
from a milk-can that was inserted in the twigs just above the entrance
of the bower.

"Nonsense, children!" said a grave old Satin Bird, "your trifles are
not to be compared with that beautiful object I found to-day and
arranged along the top of the bower. The effect is splendid!"

As he spoke, Dot observed that, twined amidst the topmost twigs of the
construction was a strip of red flannel from an old shirt, a bedraggled
red rag that must have been found in an extinct camp fire, judging by
its singed edges.

The day Dot had lost her way she had been threading beads, and she
still had upon her finger a ring of the pretty coloured pieces of
glass. She saw the old Satin Bird look at this ring longingly, so she
pulled it off, and begged that it might be added to the other
decorations. It was instantly given the place of honour--over the
entrance and above the piece of milk tin.

This gift from Dot caused an immediate flow of conversation, because
every bird was pleased to have something to talk about. They all began
to say how beautiful the beads were. "Quite too lovely!" said one.
"What a charming little Human!" exclaimed another. "Just the finish
that our bower required," was a general remark, and a great many kept
exclaiming, "So tasteful!" "So sweet!" "How elegant!" "Exquisite!"
"It's a love!" "It's a dear!" and so on. A great deal more was said,
but the oldest bower bird, thinking that all the adjectives were
getting used up, told the frogs and crickets to start the music again,
so as to keep the excitement going, and all further observations were
drowned in the noise.

Presently the younger birds flew down to the bower, and began to play
and dance. Like a troop of children, they ran round and round the
bower, and to and fro through it, gleefully chasing each other. Then
they would assemble in groups, and hop up and down, and dance to one
another in what Dot thought a rather awkward fashion; but she was
thinking of the elegance and grace of the Native Companions, who can
make beautiful movements with their long legs and necks, whilst these
little bower birds are rather ungainly in their s