ce 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 steps.

What amused her was to see how the young cock birds showed off to the
little hens. They were conceited fellows, and only seemed happy when
they had five or six little hens looking admiringly at their every
movement. At such times they wo