refused it when we had them in cages for removal to the islands. So now I do not trouble them the first night, but the second evening I catch them and make them eat a few pieces, and the night after they will eat it readily themselves. I knew they ate a few berries in their own homes, and, fearing fish might be too monotonous, I rolled it in oatmeal, until now they will eat porridge by itself. In the day time they sleep huddled up together, though at first they would fight, not being mates, but now they seem to be the best of friends. I made a dark den for them, but they would not go into it, preferring to sleep behind it, under the log, where I can see them shivering with the cold, and annoyed by the sandflies.

The male is always much smaller than the female, and this one is moulting, which makes him look smaller still; so he gets in a nook inside, and the female sits close to him and almost over him, as if to keep him warm. There is only a round ball of their brown drooping feathers to be seen, and perhaps the point of the long beak clear of the feathers in some unexpected place.

When disturbed they lift their sleepy-looking heads from under the mantle of long feathers on the shoulders, where one would think them safe from sandflies, but I often see dots of blood around the eyes and mouth, for the flies are very insidious, and may bite severely without leaving a trace. Where there were no sandflies they might thrive much better than they do here; and, as they are so easily enclosed, it is a wonder every extensive garden has not a pair, for there is no doubt about their value, because they are specially fitted for finding the garden-pests that can so easily hide from jabbering sparrows and other musical humbugs that came here under false pretences.

The song of the roa is not very musical, but might become sweeter by association than our blackbirds and thrushes that pay us in whistles for stealing our fruit; while roas are humble, and so harmless that they will not even scratch the ground, but probe it with their slender beaks, guided by scent and hearing in the night time, and then go to their holes at daylight, only to come out again when the other workers are going to bed.

There can be no harm in speculating about how these curious birds came to New Zealand, for there are no degrees in ignorance when nobody knows. Men may have done the mysterious distribution as part of their business here. The fact of finding no geological proof only amounts to the silly man's evidence when he offered to bring a dozen men to swear that they did not see him steal a spade. We know that men are eminently fitted for such work, and that they

have been at it as long as we know anything about them; then, why not previously? They brought lions and tigers to Rome about two thousand years ago. There are as wonderful ruins in Java as there are in Egypt, and some of the Rajah's keep pet tigers there to-day. Then, why not formerly, when perhaps they brought them as far as the Romans did, and even across “Wallace's line”? Even the sea-shells benefit more than half the living things by extracting the surplus lime that might poison the fish. Then, why should not the ablest have useful work to do for the community?

Recent research suggests the probability of roas originating from birds that could fly. That is a very good story, but there is not nearly enough of it, because they must have had many adventures since they first flew up for a skite round some Old-World mountain-tops and got blown away to New Zealand. In the first place they found no enemies in the New Zealand scrub, or they would not have lost their wings; and possibly there were swift hawks about that made them afraid to show themselves until they quite forgot about their wings.

There might have been a long period of cold, when roas were the fittest to survive as long as any forest remained. There may have been a sinking of the land, when such mountaineers as roas would be the most likely to survive with their varied food; and when the land rose again some of them may have gone down relieved of enemies, and developed into moas in the fruitful valleys; for nature takes no heed of time in fitting her people for their surroundings. And even now no more perfect fit exists than that of the roas for their dominions. Their feathers are hairy at the tips and hard to wet or disarrange, yet soft and downy at the roots, amply warm and waterproof; and their skins are thick and oily, as if to defy the everlasting damp of the shady forest, where they never feel a gleam of sunshine.

As their food is in the ground, on the steep hill-sides, they have powerful legs for climbing, with strong spurs on their heels to let them go down steep and slippery places with ease and safety. The wing is no bigger than one of their toes, and naked with the exception of a row of little penfeathers, in memory of the old quills of long ago; while the tiny shoulder is useful as a rest for the beak when asleep.

The wonderful beak is long, slender, and slightly curved, but, unlike all others, with the nostrils at the very tip, which fit it for finding its food deep in the moss and roots, where it had no competitors. It has also cutting-edges, which I was not aware of until I saw them rasping a lath of the cage. It is white when alive and partly transparent when recently dead, showing a network of blood-vessels, as if highly sensi-

tive for feeling its food at the bottom of the holes. Those holes are the size of a pencil when in earth, and 4 in. or 5 in. deep, but when in moss are cone-shaped, as if made with the head, and perhaps 10 in. deep, thus showing how acute their scent and hearing must be to locate some silent grub or worm down there. Only in a garden in the evening or bright moonlight can one be seen at work. Then it lifts its foot and puts it down so gently, with its neck outstretched and ear forward, in a listening attitude, that I am almost sure it depends greatly on its hearing for finding its food; and it must be sharp to detect the small noises of white grubs and wireworms 1 in. or 2 in. underground, yet near grass-land at Te Anau I have found their stomachs half-filled with them in the spring, and with beetles and other things I never noticed else where.

It often rests the point of its beak on the ground, apparently for support, but it may be to scent the worm-holes that come to the surface. Though their sight seems to be of little use to them, there is no doubt about their keen scent, because when a worm or piece of meat is thrown near them they are aware of its presence at once, and touch the ground here and there, coming nearer and nearer until it is felt and taken up. I have often seen their tracks on the sandy beaches at Te Anau, and was puzzled to know why there were only a few regular steps and then a deep footprint and a long stride to the right or left; but now I think they get part of their food in the spring by catching insects that fly close to the ground, especially in those seasons when green beetles and the like are a nuisance; so their eyesight is of some use to them, notwith-standing their blind manner. I find that they can change their food, like the woodhen, for I put in a big moki's head, boiled, a few nights ago, and they picked it clean: and now I only put in a dish of promiscuous scraps, and they clean it up like little pigs, so that they are very satisfactory to feed.

Mr. Ness, of Port Chalmers, has kept a splendid one in perfect health for years, and I promised to send him a mate for it; so that is what my captives are for. Three-foot netting is quite sufficient to enclose them, and, as there are hundreds of places already enclosed, it is a pity no one tries this way of dealing with pests in gardens, of which we hear so much now and then, with the value of sparrows, &c. It is not at all hopeless to domesticate them. Though they only lay their one great egg, yet they may breed twice as fast as sheep or cattle, because I have found eggs in July and November; so that many of them may lay twice in the year under favourable circumstances. I am confident that if they were better known they would be highly valued by gardeners, and become quite common, which would be the best of all ways of saving them

permanently. At all events, some one should try the experiment, and if authorised to do so I would send a pair to any one having a suitable place, and willing to give them a little food in winter, for of course they could do nothing in frost unless there were plantations.

Though they could make holes for themselves in the soft banks, yet I think they very seldom do so, for there are always plenty to choose from under the roots of trees where they can sleep during the day. For the nest they like rather a small hole with only one entrance, and in the driest place they can find. There they gather a few handfuls of dry fern-leaves and scrub and lay their one great egg; and I think the male takes entire charge of it, and never leaves it until it is hatched, but I am not quite sure of this, for the female may sit a while at night and let him come out for food, but I never found one on an egg, though I have seen dozens of nests in the last fourteen years. On a very few occasions I have found the female in the hole with him when sitting, but generally he is there alone, though at other times the adults are always in pairs. Even if I was to go up the spur in the dark to a nest I might disturb them and learn nothing; but the point of his endurance can be easily settled by those that keep them in gardens.

At the beginning of his task he is in good condition, but when the egg is nearly hatched he is poor and quite stupid, while his mate is wide awake and fightable, so that they have just exchanged places since she laid that egg. I found two chickens just hatched, one of them not quite dry; yet there was not a scrap of eggshell in the nest, and I could not account for it. The chickens were quite helpless, and unable to stand up, so they must have either absorbed food enough to last them until they could walk or the parents carried it to them. When they are able to walk some of them at least are quite careless about staying with the old ones, for I have found a tender little thing several yards away from where the parents were asleep; and I found a tiny grey kiwi in a knothole near the beach, and my dog could not find the mother at all. So there are many questions to be asked about them, for they have some curious ways, and as yet we may not know half their history. From the size of the egg and the shape of his body it would be impossible for him to hatch two eggs at one time, so that the big egg must be a very old legacy.

The voice of the male is a high-pitched rather musical scream, with a tremble and a sudden drop of several notes at the end of each call, which may be about two seconds duration, repeated five or six times. The female sings nearly the same tune, but in a much lower and hoarser tone, somewhat