above the Rangitata Gorge; on being observed on a branch of a tree, it was knocked down and caught during its fall; there was fur on its beak, as though it had not long before devoured a mouse; this bird was also set at liberty. Two other instances of its occurrence have been communicated, but without further information. It may be mentioned that one of these was again on the Rangitata. At Shepherd Bush Station, on the Rangitata, opposite Peel Forest, a specimen was observed in the house, greatly resembling A. Novœ Zelandiœ, except in size, which was about that of a kingfisher; it was most gentle in its habits, remaining quiet during the daytime and sallied forth in the evening, regaining its perch by entering through a broken window. This pretty little visitor thus frequented the house for about a fortnight; it should be added that the house stands close to a small bush composed chiefly of Leptospermum, Griselinia, etc., of which there are many aged specimens. From these notices it may be safely inferred that the Little Owl is arboreal in its habits, and possibly not so strictly nocturnal as its better known congeners; whether it is to be considered identical with either of the species referred to by Dr. Finsch is, of course, at present unknown; it is certain it is not a tufted species, or such a remarkable form would have been noticed. No. 7.—Halcyon vagans, Gray. (See also Vol. ii., p. 52.) Towards autumm, these, our intimate friends, who have been absent during the summer on urgent family affairs, make their welcome re-appearance in the gardens; they may now be seen in numbers; early in the month of March it would not be difficult to count a dozen of them at one time on the posts and espalier rails. When not engaged in making those well-known rapid darts, their habit is to remain perfectly still, and, for the most part, silent; they indulge in no joyous fluttering amongst trees and shrubs, they pour forth no melodious song, for their various cries are most unmusical and harsh. Our species shares that sedate gravity of the family which has long been remarked, even by such writers as one of the butterfly poets of the “Merrie Monarch's” Court, who wrote,— “That with such Halcyon calmness fix our soules In steadfast peace, as no affright controules.” To us this gravity seems to verge on melancholy, and Dryden's expression, when he calls them “the mournful race,” appears apt enough. Burton's wonderful book bears on its quaint frontispiece the figure of the kingfisher occupying a place amongst the several emblems of jealous melancholy, which he thus describes,— “To th' left, a landskip of jealousie Presents itself unto thine eye— A Kingfisher—”