ge fierce eyes and tails curved down to
strike.

The Bush Baby was so astonished that she fell off the log, and there she
lay face down on the green moss, so still that the bees took her for a
fallen kowhai blossom and droned away from her.

But the Piccaninny ran for his life, with all the bees after him, and
when the noise of their angry buzzing had died away, the Bush Baby got
up and had a rare feast of honey, and went back home very sticky and
blissful and contented.

As for the Piccaninny, who had escaped the bees, by lying down and
pretending to be a Tea Tree Jack (they call that camouflage now), he
only sniffed when they told him about it, and said:

"Pooh! I knew that honey was there all the time. I said I'd find her
some and I did!"

_How like a boy!_

_When the tree of gold
Turns a tree of green,
The dear Bush Babies
Are no more seen.
To fields of gold
They have gaily run,
And are lost in the light
Of the golden sun;
Or caught in the mist
Of gold that lies
Like a net of dreams
On Day's sleepy eyes.
But behold! next year
They are here! They are here!
They come trooping back
Down the wander-track,
Like rays of light
In the forest old,
And the green tree turns
To a tree of gold._

HOHERIA BLOSSOM.

Do you know the Lovely Ladies of the Bush? They swing on
the tips of the Hoheria tree, with their floating white gowns and
tossing silvery ringlets, and are so light and graceful that they float
on the wind as they swing. If you could _only_ see the Lovely Ladies
dancing! But very few have been lucky enough for that!

They dance on the wind, holding to the tips of the Hoheria and their
white gowns flutter and swirl, and their ringlets float and sway, and
sometimes in the joy of the dance a Lovely Lady lets go of her branch
and comes fluttering down to earth.

Then she can dance no more, but lies very still. It is rather sad,
because once she has let go she may not go back and dance on the tree
for a whole long year, and it is looked on rather as a disgrace to be
the first to fall.

However, she has not to wait long for company. For one by one, the
Lovely Ladies, wild with the joy of the mazy dance, the soft rush of
the wind and the laughing and clapping of the little leaves, loose their
hold, and drift to earth light as thistle-down, and that is the end of
their dancing for that year. Where do they go to while the year goes by?
I have never foun