Two goldfinches bathing together are a pretty sight, but a whole ‘charm’ taking the plunge at once is something to watch for – and to listen to, for they sing as they dip.
One moment the bath may be full of a mob of splashing thornbills. Next moment two white-backed magpies or a butcher bird have possession and the small birds are discreetly absent. They are not far away, however, for a closely cropped tea-tree nearby offers a ready refuge into which they slip until the coast is clear. In this, 100 small birds are lost at once. A rosemary and a coastal rice-flower, trimmed in the same way, are used as escapes.
The cottage stands on a high, flat-topped dune over which a hawk has been seen. Hosts of blue wrens are with us, many with blue tails, but so far none with blue body plumage. Recently part of the ground at the back was fenced in with wire-netting. This seems to have given a sense of security to the wrens. The enclosure made by wire fence, box-room and garage is probably too restricted for a hawk to ‘brake down’ before making its swoop.
One thing is most impressive about these small winter visitors – their arrival, not in twos or threes, but in flocks. Yellowtailed tits come in a cloud, like butterflies. Instantly both baths will be full of splashing tits with hosts waiting in the branches of a black tea-tree overhead, or along the picket fence.
EPILOGUE
‘Like most nature-lovers I have witnessed many memorable incidents among birds and other creatures; but I think the night singing of budgerigars will always be my loveliest memory . . . One has no words to convey adequately the wonder and beauty of that night chorus. We could not have spoken, had we wished, as we stood there in the dark, listening to Australia’s cheeriest birds singing their song of the rain.’
MY PRINTER CHUGS and grumbles in the corner of my office before grudgingly releasing some illustrations my eldest daughter is completing for a university art assignment. Outside, my younger daughter is inching along the verandah, trying to get close enough to take a photo of an eastern spinebill swinging on the long stems of the kangaroo paws in the garden. On the weekend she’ll head into the local conservation reserve to help with mist-netting and bird-banding efforts. I close up my piles of books on orchids, on nature writing, on Melbourne’s history, and collect my notes into folders for storage. I need some fresh air and a walk through the bush at the other end of our block.
A flock of New Holland honeyeaters (Phylidonyris novae-hollandiae) are swimming in a creeper that covers the garden bed outside my study window. There are five of them, more a mob than a flock, ducking and weaving amongst the foliage, frolicking like children in a pool. They are beady-eyed, black and white birds with a bright flash of yellow on their wing. I am reminded of Edith watching eastern spinebills (Acanthorhynchus tenuirostris) and regent honeyeaters (Xanthomyza phrygia) in her garden.
‘As I sit at breakfast a pair of spine-billed honeyeaters and their young ones are busy among the fuchsias not a foot from my windows. These beautiful little birds, with their rich chestnut and black coloring have grown very trustful and their sweet, piercing call is pleasant to hear. The fuchias have been especially fine this year, and the busy little bills are, I am sure, finding an abundance of nectar. Food for the gods, surely. The handsome black and yellow regent honey eaters are much more rare; but they have made their homes with us for the past three seasons.’
My garden is too hot and sunny for fuchias and salvias and they need more work than I am prepared to provide. But the honeyeaters seem to enjoy the tough, resilient lotus plant (Lotus berthelotii) instead, its feathery blue-grey foliage smothered with bright orange beak-shaped flowers. Red flowers attractive to avian eyes, long curved necks for bird beaks, sturdy long-lived flowers to sustain a large pollinator – all classic signs of a bird-pollinated plant.
Edith’s regent honeyeaters are no longer found in Blackburn. In fact there are fewer than 1200 left in the wild. They are one of Victoria’s most critically endangered birds. My lotus plant too, despite its garden abundance, is extinct in its native habitat on the Canary Islands off the Atlantic coast of Africa. Also gone forever are the iridescent sunbirds that once pollinated it in its homeland. Now their bright long-lasting flowers sustain Australian honeyeaters on the far side of the globe.
The New Holland honeyeaters suddenly startle, flying off to hang in the kangaroo paws, chipping with an unfounded alarm and displacing the eastern spinebills in their dark shiny suits and russet waistcoats. Both species love the kangaroo paws but I rarely see them together. One always tactfully enters stage left as the other species departs stage right, in a carefully managed performance designed to minimise competition and maximise rewards. Now both species disappear in a flurry of chirrups and blurred wings. The furry red and orange fists of the kangaroo paws sway on their long stems as if echoing their departed visitors.
This year that I have spent with Edith has produced more unexpected riches than I might ever have imagined. The depth and breadth of her biological work constantly takes me by surprise. Her writing delights and inspires me. And now the story of her life, and how she came to fulfil her remarkable career, proves that it is never too late to engage with the work you love.
I reach the top of the hill in the middle of the bush that covers half our block. I’ve always thought there should
