May 27, 1939.—It is always interesting to me, at least, to record first impressions after a short absence. Up in the Shangtung hills the English Cuckoo (Asiatic variety) is sounding his mellow note, but in spite of the efforts of the Evening Primrose to paint the hillsides yellow, the general colour remains a little drab: wild flowers are, so to speak, straining at the leash to add a little colour to the countryside, but sun and rain must do some further work to paint the lawns green and to bring back vivid life to the hillsides scraped bare by fuel-gatherers in winter: the sleeping beauty is all ready tô awake at the summer sun's first kiss. Down in Shanghai the rich foliage of the trees and the brilliant greens of grass and weeds bear eloquent witness to the fact that we are at least a month ahead of the Northern territory: here the strident voice of the com-Than Cuckoo's Indian cousin sounds high above the bird chorus, while Blackbirds, Bulbuls, Orioles, and even the plaintive-voiced Minivet, are doing their best to make the' general effect jo little musical. In my garden I find the first broods of the Blackbirds out on the lawn trying to prove by their fawn-coloured spotted waistcoats that they are, indeed, true Thrushes.... for this is the uniform they will wear until they reach the adult stage. Families of Grey Tits—small in size but great in numbers—are squeaking among the trees demanding food from their overworked parents; they are wearing the pinky-red waistcoats of their first plumage, which will be exchanged later for the black apron of their later years. Out in the wooded corner of Jessfield the magnificent voice of a Hwamei drowns the song of all other musicians; he is a bird of the hills and has no business here. Is he an "escape"....or can it be that he has mistaken Mr. Gimson's Himalayas for tael hills? I wonder:
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.