AUGUST... AND THE SILVEREYES.

Forest and Bird, Issue 31, 1 October 1933, Page 15

AUGUST... AND THE SILVEREYES.

Silvereyes! They are everywhere—hundreds of them. New Zealand farm houses are besieged by a multitude of winged beings. Green birds cluster round the doorways, flock in scores to the turnip-fields in search of blight, swarm upon the fruit trees, long since stripped of their autumn harvest, cling to the rose bushes, stripping them of the green pests which prey upon the delicate shoots, gather in dismal groups upon the lawn —a mute appeal to the fact that August is here, that the forest is barren of food . . . that the birds need feeding. Strangely enough there was not a silvereye near our place on the last day of July, yet the following morning they were fluttering everywhere waiting to be fed. I provided them with suet, apples, rendered fat, scraps from the table, shallow dishes of skim milk and a small dish of thin honey. The result was amazing. A few of the less timid approached first, encouraging their companions, then more came, more, and still more, until upwards,of five or six hundred fluttered round the boxes, upon which I had placed the food, struggling and fighting for positions, while one and . all enjoyed the feast of a lifetime. For perhaps ten minutes they fed more or less in peace, then free-for-all fights started. One vivacious, although somewhat emaciated bird, appeared to be the ringleader. The havoc which this little chap i wrought was colossal. Boldly approaching a group of feasting birds he would immediately attack his nearest neighbour, the confusion which followed frightening all the others away. One by one they returned only to be repelled by the victorious warrior, who, using the box as a kind of fighting table, would carry on the battle with remorseless intensity. Soon, however, a newcomer would alight on the box, and, facing his opponent with quivering wings, wide-open beak and slightly raised top-not would invite the other to combat. For as long as three minutes they would face one another, then one would attack. While the battle waged the others would return to their interrupted meal, one timid, very fat fellow, feasting in great style in order to make amends for lost time. For about ten days the Silvereyes honoured us with their presence, during which time they became very domesticated and friendly; it was no infrequent occurance to have them perch

upon our heads and shoulders while we were replenishing their food supply. Then, one day heralding an epoch of beautifully fine weather, the green birds forsook the temporary sanctuary for their natural haunt—the bush. On the eve of inclement weather they returned, their peculiar plaintive cries announcing their arrival. From that time the Silvereyes have remained, habitating the feeding-grounds and turnip paddock by day, retiring to roost in a plantation of firs at night. For roosting purposes they also frequent a gully choked with black scrub and flax. Usually they perch in the extreme top of the trees. Many of them appear to recognise an ideal camping-ground in a dense escalonia hedge; this, however, is occupied by a colony of noisy, quarrelsome sparrows, and the little green chaps seem to think it wise to avoid the quarters of such omnipotent birds, for although many of them regard it wistfully yet none of them ever sleep there. The presence of the green visitors seem to be greatly resented by a pair of native larks who have regarded the lawn and porch as their particular hunting-ground for the last four years. These latter are remarkably friendly, always appearing several times every day to be fed. Upon the arrival of the Silvereyes, however, they invariably disappear, only putting in an occasional appearance, usually on some bitterly cold day, where they stay long enough to eat a hasty meal, ere they depart. Often I come across this drab grey pair running about in some spot, never very sheltered, in the vicinity of the house, sadly preferring to eke out an existence, however meagre, rather than mingle with the Silvereyes. Just why this is, is beyond my comprehension, for of all New Zealand birds, none is more gentle, quiet, and friendly than this same native lark. As I write, a Silvereye —vivacious little chap that he is—has hopped on to the window sill, and after regarding me with bright eye, has flown down to join his fellows at their feasting. Ah, well! little green birds, you are welcome here until the cold weather goes, when once more you can return to your beautiful forest home.