NATURE—AND MAN

Southland Times, Issue 22210, 30 December 1933, Page 3

NATURE—AND MAN

GAME-BIRDS AND THEIR ENEMIES. NEED OF MORE SANCTURIES. (Edited by Leo Fanning). It was mentioned in a previous “Nature—and Man” article that lovers of shotgun sport in the North Auckland district were impetuously accusing the weka of raiding pheasants’ nests. Poor weka! This bird seems to be blamed for the offences of various enemies of game-birds. The latest charge against the weaka in the Northland is that it is a menace to wild ducks. How can such an allegation stand against the facts of natural history? For thousands of years the weka and native ducks lived in the same territory, and both species flourished until man came with his death-dealing practices. It must be borne in mind, too, that in the remote past the abundance of natural cover would have been very favourable for any egg-stealing habits of the weka, but the ducks thrived.

Recent reports from the Northland indicate that wekas are scarce in the bush there, but rats and cats—which prey heavily on bird life—are very numerous. Persons who travel in motor cars and launches are blamed for a wide distribution of cats in the North Auckland district. They evidently believe that a humane way to rid themselves of unwanted cats is to take them for a long ride, and set them free in lonely places where they become pests. How is the conservation of game and other birds to make progress against such folly? Safety Zones. One of the northern sportsmen, with more wisdom than some of his brethren showed, declared rightly that the welfare of game-birds required more sanctuaries. In that view he is in line with the best authorities of North America, where the vital importance of sanctuaries is at last being properly recognized. Another matter which should concern sportsmen very seriously is the enormous killing of birds on the opening day of the shooting season. The first day of May is a sad death day for many thousands of ducks. There is a general desire among shootists to “get in early.” They plan for “big bags” on that day, and the resultant slaughter

is stupendous. It would be better for sport, in the long run, if only half bf an acclimatization district was opened for shooting on May 1 and the other half a week later.

Proper control of wild life in New Zealand remains an ideal, of which the realization is still beyond the horizon. At the United States Game Conference last year a delegate remarked that, until the country had enough trained manpower in harness to put wild-life consevation on a par with forestry and agriculture, progress would be distressingly slow. He urged that more men should be trained immediately. Here is an editorial comment of “American Game” (official magazine of the American Game Association) on that delegate’s statement:—“Technical forces must be put on a higher plane than the political auction block. They will be if the public demands it. We need more trained man power, and we need to give scientific workers a chance to work out the problems in hand without interruption.” Walking on a garden path at my home the other day I nearly stepped on a thrush which was busily whacking a shell-back on a stone. The bird calmly hopped ahead a few feet with the titbit, and resumed the banging. Its fearless pose reminded me of a saying of Captain Sanderson’s:—“There are no wild birds. They are not wild by nature. Man makes them wild by his persecution.” That thrush gave me a confident look which I interpreted thus:—“Gaze at me. Am I not your friend? Say something nice about me.” That bird and its many associates have practically wiped out the shell-back clan in my garden. The Singing Premiership.

Many species of birds sing only during the mating and nesting season, but some have a much longer period of melody exercises, The thrush is a notable performer. In and about Wellington this bird may be heard in winter, spring, early summer and autumn. I have seldom heard its song in midsummer, but perhaps other observers may be more fortunate. However, in this devotion to music the thrush would not surpass the tui, which I have heard in all seasons. “You wouldn’t think worms could make a noise that the birds can hear,” writes a correspondent who has observed birds—especially thrushes—patrolling lawns. “They walk about,” the writer states, “lean their heads to one side as if listening, and then plunge their beaks in the grass and pull out fat worms.”

Some ornithologists say that the birds do not dash at the food until they see it. I am not an ornithologist, but it is my firm belief, based on many observations, that thrushes listen for the rustling of the worms near the surface of turf. To a layman certainly the whole pose of the bird is one of keen listening. “ ‘Back to the land’ is the soundest of all political cries,” remarks Mr H. Guthrie-Smith in his preface of a charming book “Mutton Birds and other Birds.” “ ‘Back to the wilds’ is what

will bring to each who makes the trial, the happiness that brings no later regrets, from which all troubles will be forgotten, and which unlike any other portion of our lives, will leave the memory only of its pleasures behind. Assuredly in this twentieth century’ we are attempting an over-civilization, and men have almost come to believe that to walk all day in streets or to sit at ledger and desk is the natural lot. He who so thinks has lived but half his life—he has failed to enjoy the savage latent in himself. It is hearing and sight,—those most ancient senses in the frame of man, that give in their exercise the fullest joy, and to listen and watch are more than to think.

“But what do we see and what do we hear, and what through our eyes and ears do we not owe to the masters of verse? It has become impossible in prose to witness a great sea rolling into a shallow bay, to think of woods lashed with rain, of wind among the dunes, of grey and dewy turf whose greener markings show where wild things have trod at dawn, of sudden airs that dim the shadows of a water expanse and shiver in silver along its blue, of noon in summer when green tendrils flag. The breezes stream and the seas flow; but they bear a new meaning and a new melody, something the savage has never known. Perhaps only in this are we modems the happier breed of men; that the poets are as Eolian harps through which our primitive senses pass. To each phase of nature, sweet or severe are added apt images, tender thoughts and sequences of immortal words. Away from our fellow men and alone, what can we see or hear or feel that is lovely and pure and of good report, without a flow of thoughts that are not our own?”