The Island of Birds (5) WINGS IN THE NIGHT

Southland Times, Issue 25024, 9 April 1943, Page 3

The Island of Birds (5) WINGS IN THE NIGHT

THE SEA BIRDS COME HOME By L. E. RICHDALE

Landing on Whero one receives no indication except for the pungent smell, that the place is the home of such a vast number of sea birds. The skuas, however, keep vigilant watch ov ® r their domain and soon intimate to the visitor in no uncertain manner that they resent his intrusion. First one of the pair dives straight at his head. After he has dodged it and is recovering his balance, the second one is on the attack, and so they go on taking alternate assaults. After a few days most of the “dive-bombing” ceases and the birds alight a few feet from the visitor and express their annoyance vocally. Their call is ludicrously puny for such a large and savage sea bird, but I have noticed that this call can be heard above the roar of a rough sea. It must be admitted that though the cry is a weak one it has a penetrating quality. These skuas, of course, are the monarchs of the island, and will not allow any of their kind on the place. If a black-backed gull inadvertently approaches it is immediately attacked and is forced away emitting very plaintive squeals. I must say that I experience a little quiet satisfaction at seeing this gull receiving treatment similar to what it is accustomed to extend to other birds. Predatory and ruthless by nature, the skua feeds on any unlucky petrel that comes its way, though I do not think that many of these birds are caught on the island itself. THE NIGHTLY RETURN The silence of day is broken as the darkness descends. This seemingly uninhabitated spot is then transformed by the return of its inhabitants, _ each uttering its own particular plaintive and somewhat raucous cry, into a busy and noisy scene. The return of countless petrels to their island home must surely be one of the wonders of the world, to be experienced by only a few of the human race. Mr Guthrie-Smith, in his charming book, “Mutton-birds and Other Birds,” presents for our delight a vivid description of his experience and reactions towards the nightly home-coming of the petrels on the much larger island of Herekopare. The mutton-birds are the first arrivals, and shortly .before nine p.m. in mid-summer they may be seen collecting in hundreds on the water offshore. Soon they rise and begin to circle the island or the area containing their burrows. (It must be borne in mind that all these sea birds nest in holes in the ground.) As one watches, a thud is heard, followed by a soft rustle—the first mutton-bird has arrived. More and more now land, until by 9.30 p.m. the noise of their landing is like the pounding of large drops of hail on the ground. In the meantime those which have reached their burrows are “making the night-air hideous” with’ their weird, dolorous wails. On approaching 10 p.m. the number of homecoming mutton-birds slackens off, although occasionally an odd one will land up to midnight. As the darkness deepens, making it difficult to see any more mutton-birds arrive, little thuds here and there indicate that kuakas, with their dark heads and backs, are landing. Unlike the mutton-birds they do not indulge in any preliminary circling, but come straight in from the sea and will quite easily crash into the observer if he happens to be in the way. As far as I can ascertain, most of these birds are in by midnight, with the bulk arriving before 11 p.m. Their mournful, one-note, cat-like calls are now added to the doleful wails of the muttonbirds. BIRDS EVERYWHERE By 10.15 p.m., when it is quite dark, the first of the storm petrels and the titi wainuis appear—only odd ones, however, which circle and flutter about all over the area. Close observation has made me believe that the early arrivals have nests. The numbers rapidly increase, till by 11 p.m. there are birds everywhere—on the ground, fluttering about in the bushes, on the Muehlenbeckia, around one’s head which they continually hit, in the air above one, and last of all in and on the tent. The whole night seems to be filled with a multitude of white butterflies. Each little throat utters its own peculiar cry. The most intriguing calls to me were the loud, rapidly repeated “poor popper” or “popper, popper, pop,” of the titi wainuis. These were ably supplemented by the canary-like notes of hundreds of tiny, dainty, storm petrelfi. Interspersed among all this chatter is an occasional cat-like “mew” of the kuaka, or the mournful wail of a mutton-bird in the air, or of mutton-birds in the burrow giving vent to their connubial bliss. Sleep amidst such a pandemonium is impossible.