He drew the birds and then put them on the stone himself. Most naturalists of that era handed the drawing to an engraver and waited months; Swainson learned lithography and did his own plates, which is why so many of them look like one man's hand rather than a workshop's. Born 1789, moved to New Zealand in his fifties, died there in 1855.
Three of his names turn up in my notebook: Swainson's hawk, Swainson's thrush, Swainson's warbler. The thrush I know by the voice going up a spiral staircase. The hawk by the hundreds, strung along a fence line in September, waiting on the wind. He also classified by a system of fives, everything in nature arranged in circles of five, and he was very sure about it. The birds declined to cooperate. The plate attached is his Golden-eared Parrakeet, grey with a crest and an orange cheek patch, which I'd call a cockatiel and so would you.
His Zoological Illustrations in the early 1820s is one of the first British natural history books where the man who saw the bird is also the man who put it on the stone — no engraver standing between, which is why the line stays nervous rather than tidy. I've handled two copies; the loved one had a thumbprint in the margin.
He landed in the Hutt Valley in 1841 and spent a good part of his last years out surveying bush country for the government — long days on foot in wet ground, not at a stone with a crayon. Kit, I'd love to know what his boots made of it.