CHILDREN’S PAGE.

Forest and Bird, Issue 10, 1 March 1926, Page 13

CHILDREN’S PAGE.

(By A. H. Messenger.)

A STORY OF THE FANTAIL.

hen George Wilson was twelve years old he could tell the voice of nearly every bird in the bush near his home. He, with his three brothers and two sisters', lived in a little settlement away on the Taranaki coast, a good many miles from the town of New Plymouth. Close to the settlement great ranges covered with heavy bush marked the limit of the farming land, and beyond the ranges still more hills could be seen all covered with forest, stretching away almost as far as the eye could see. All the spare time the children had from lessons was spent in the cool and fragrant shade of the, great trees, and here they saw and got to know the many rare and beautiful birds for which New Zealand is famed, and whose numbers, alas, have been so sadly depleted in the years of settlement. Best of all their feathered friends was the dainty fantail. which would follow the children through the bush, flitting daintily from branch to branch, and even at times settling for a brief moment on their outstretched hands. One beautiful afternoon George and his younger brother Alfred wandered off into the bush, and becoming interested in the flight of a tiny bird —a little bush ren scarcely bigger than a person’s thumb-followed it into a fern-clad gully, and, pushing through thick supplejacks and creepers, finally saw it flit into a tiny hole in the trunk of a big tree. After some trouble George was able to climb up to the hole, and, peeping in, discovered a beautiful little bottle-shaped nest of moss and leaves hanging to a vine which grew' right up the centre of the tree. . - Naturally the boys were very excited at having found a wren’s nest, and in starting to go home they took the wrong direction, and wandering on soon discovered that they had lost their way. While the daylight lasted they did not mind much, but as darkness crept in among the towering tree trunks, little Alfred became very frightened and cried bitterly. There are strange noises in the bush at night, which seem terrifying to those who do not know them. Though George also felt nervous at first, he soon recognised the various sounds, and tried to reassure his younger brother.

The shrill screech, which sounded so eerie, he knew was only the cry of a mopoke calling its mate, and the mournful wail from the gullies he knew was the call of a wandering woodhen. So he comforted the little fellow, telling him not to be afraid, because the creatures they heard were only birds. The two boys crept among the big roots of a giant rimu, or red pine tree, and there huddled together for warmth. Alfred soon fell asleep. George, however, like the brave little man he was, stayed awake, holding his brother’s hand firmly in his own. How long the hours seemed! Everything was very still, so that when a stick cracked away in the forest it made George start up and listen intently. Once a wild pig grunted quite close , by, and, when George threw a stick in its direction, it scampered off into the bush. Early morning came at last, and, with the sun'shining through the trees and the pigeons flying with a musical swishing of wings from branch to branch, the boys felt much happier. Still they knew that they were lost, and wandered on for some hours trying in vain to discover some sign or mark which they could recognise. Just about midday they sat down to rest awhile, and suddenly, like a bunch of thistledown floating on the wind, there came a dainty fantail, settling on a branch near by and spreading its pretty tail. from near the bush track. See ! It has a broken feather on one side of its tail.” The boys looked closely, hardly daring to believe that it could be the same bird, and, when they saw that it was, they started up gladly and followed it as it flitted before them. Gaily the little bird flew from branch to branch, breaking into its sweet little song every now and then and suddenly through the trees the two boys caught sight of a green field which they knew was quite close to their own home. They started to run as they came to the edge of the bush, but a little way outside George stopped suddenly. “ Where is our little bird?” he said, turning round. “ What do you want it for?” asked Alfred. “ I would just like to thank it for bringing us home,” said his brother, “ because without it we should have been completely lost.” The little fantail had gone, however, back into the forest which was its home.

It is now many years since the incident related in' this story took place, and the small boys have long since grown to manhood. When you visit the farm, which they still hold, you will see a beautiful little patch of native bush, all that remains of, the one-time great forest. A few birds still cling to its shelter, and among them none are more carefully watched and preserved than the descendants of that little fantail with the broken tail-feather.