December—that the Tui poses as a songster, and shows off to the greatest perfection. Whilst the hen-bird is sitting the male is accustomed to perch himself on the high limb of a tree not far distant from his mate, using this as a post of outlook; and then, throughout the whole day, he pours out his soul in song. Puffing out his body-feathers and gesticulating freely, so as to give greater emphasis to his song, he produces quite a medley of musical notes, interspersed at intervals with that peculiar cough, and a sound not unlike the breaking of a pane of glass, followed by a series of gentle sobs. Then, quick as thought, he dashes upwards and makes a wide circuit in the air, or silently dives into the bush to exchange courtesies with his mate, snaps at a fly on the way, and then returns to his post of observation and song. After sunset, and as the shadows of evening begin to darken the forest, he alters his song, and utters a succession of notes like the tolling of a distant bell. Many of the passages in the Tui's ordinary song are of surpassing sweetness, and so rapid is the change from one set of notes to another that one never tires of listening to the wild melody. Both sexes sing, but in the breeding season the female confines her efforts to a produced note like the low chirping of a turkey-hen. As already mentioned, the male has an evening song quite distinct from that of the bright morning. To many ears it has a resemblance to the tolling of a highly pitched silver bell, but to me it is more suggestive of the distant tapping on a metal anvil. Of course, these resemblances are merely fanciful, but the musical cadence of the note is exquisite, as all who are familiar with it will readily admit.*On a quiet summer evening the Tui may sometimes be beard long after dusk. On the wooded shores of the Papaitonga Lake I have heard them tolling up to 9 o'clock at night, the notes having a very sweet effect on the water. In one of my former papers I referred to the beautiful collection of New Zealand rarities, as well as birds from all other parts of the world, brought together by the Rev. Canon Tristram, F.R.S., at Durham, and I expressed the hope that so valuable a collection might ultimately find a resting-place in some public museum. I am glad to say that this hope has been realised, and that it is now safely lodged in the Liverpool Museum, under the charge of Dr. H. O. Forbes, formerly Curator of the Canterbury Museum, who, at any rate, can fully estimate the value of New Zealand rarities. And I may here mention an interesting piece of information conveyed in Canon Tristram's last letter. He says, “I do not know if you have heard of the ‘find’ at Liverpool. Forbes came across two cases in some corner of the Museum. They had been received from the then Lord Derby, probably soon after 1845.