A Story of the Southland Bush

Forest and Bird, Issue 125, 1 August 1957, Page 3

A Story of the Southland Bush

By

HUGH ROSS

ALL that bitter winter cold held the bushlands in a fierce unrelenting grip. For days on end moisture laden grey clouds, scudding low across a storm wearied sea, swirled inland to drench the forest with endless chilly rain squalls. Cold seemed to reign supreme as though the sun might never shine again, and when a fine day did once more eventuate the doubtful warmth merely heralded long nights of. frost. The full moon brought a six-inch fall of snow with the forest aisles weirdly lit during night time, and looking forth through the trees I could see, from the comfort of my camp, above the troubled sea, ghostly scarves of moonbeams. When the wind blew, frozen lumps of snow as big as golf balls came tumbling from the branches to spring my opossum traps. Going round my line was like walking through a rattling skeleton ghost forest instead of that warm living green beauty to which I had so long been accustomed. .

The birds were having a bad time owing to food shortage. The pathetic crying of silver-eyes was something I never will be able to completely forget. They were encountered in little bunches from time to

time and were unbelievably timid, fleeing at the slightest alarm, their sad notes drifting back on the frozen air as though in denunciation of the grim fate they so surely knew awaited them. Many and many a little dead, pale green bird I lifted aside from the trail that year.

Always from March till perhaps late June fantails would accompany me on my rounds. Sometimes in pairs, but mostly single birds, they patrolled a recognised beat of about half a mile ere departing. Next morning I would again - become aware of a dainty shape and there number one would be waiting, just as a passenger might await a bus. I, so to speak, represented the bus, but at the same time I think I also paid all fares, because those hysterically shrieking flycatchers fluttering a few inches from my boots and round about my head were industriously engaged catching insects disturbed by my passing.

By July all self-respecting fly-catchers should long since have deserted my trail, completely indifferent by then to whatever I might stir forth from the fern. Other years almost invariably saw them seeking

mates and nesting sites above the insectinfested creek beds, or else deliriously trilling their small hearts out in the tops of kakmahai towering towards sunlight. Yet now, come August, ,so cold was the weather, and here they were still with me. What was more, instead of leaving after the usual half hour, they were keeping with me for nearly half a day. Once there were seven fantails fluttering round for over three hours. Tomtits, too, were gaining first-hand knowledge and thereby profiting. A trapped ’possum, they learned, scratched up and otherwise disturbed quite a lot of leaves and fresh earth. Often after removing the ’possum and resetting the trap I would see one of these small black and yellow birds drop down onto the fresh soil directly I moved back. In a manner of speaking I suppose he was standing on a volcano ; but at that it was safe enough because I kept the catches of those traps filed hard in so that not even all that tremendous pomposity, which I somehow or other always think goes to make up the components of a tomtit, bore enough weight to set off one of those traps. Bold little Tom Thumbs of birds, they did well enough for themselves. Many and many a rotting log I wasted precious moments bursting apart with my trapping adze that they might delve and feast a little more easily. And that idea brought along another bird. 'Several times I saw where something had moved aside heavy bits of wood in search of grubs. One time I glimpsed him as he darted off through the branches. A parakeetall too rare in that part of coastal Southland. I saw fantails and a grey warbler acting in a manner highly unusual for them one bright day. A skinned ’possum hanging in a tree out of the pigs’ reach attracted a bunch of .sickly-looking blow-flies. Several fly-catchers gathered for the feast. Perching on nearby twigs they would await a favourable opportunity to flutter forward and deftly catch a blue-bottle on the wing. And twice a grey-warbler emerged from some low fuschia to share in the feast. Perhaps, unknown to me, they habitually do feed on blow-flies flocking to some gruesome repast, but that is the first time I ever witnessed such a display. From what I have

seen of grey-warblers their food almost invariably consists of insects which, parasitic to tree life, cling on the leaves and branches, or else such small winged varieties as might be disturbed during the birds’ fossicking. At odd times a morepork would .suddenly fly off a low branch a few feet from my face and I’d realise he had been sitting there all the time watching my approach. He wouldn’t go very far, perhaps a chain, to alight on a limb and peer at me round-eyed till I could almost have touched him. Then off he’d go to repeat the manoeuvre. He would precede me for long distances provided I was not held up too long with skinning operations. Although not a very common characteristic of moreporks, I have once or twice seen them so act. I have been told such goings on portend rain. It may do ; but the only times I observed this friendly act was during dull late afternoons. I imagine that, simply, the birds were early astir and that their well known . natural curiosity caused them to act so. Then there was a pair of tiny riflemen who used to flit up and down and all about a big broad-leaf tree at one place where I skinned ’possums. They always seemed to be there, ever restless, and as is usual with riflemen, very assiduously minding their own business. Of all our native birds the rifleman, owing to his ceaseless activity, must be, perhaps, the most difficult of all to get a good look at. He just is not interested in us —definitely; and that is that. Then, abruptly, one fine day one of them appeared, clinging to the side of the broadleaf by my side, and he had a beak full of moss ! In that knobbly old trunk was a round hole scarce as big as a walnut. But the little fellow was much too astute to enter while I watched. He flew off through the trees instead, still holding fast to his moss. And only when I was gone did he return. About a month later I saw him with his beak full once more —of insects which looked like daddy-long-legs this time. That set me thinking. Quite suddenly I remembered that the fly-catchers were gone from my trail. Summer really didn’t seem to have been any spring at all—had come at last.