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diff --git a/77055-0.txt b/77055-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..65ffa21 --- /dev/null +++ b/77055-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,527 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77055 *** + + + + + + THE WILDERNESS + + BY + + AMY ELEANOR MACK + + (Mrs. LAUNCELOT HARRISON) + + AUTHOR OF “A BUSH CALENDAR,” “BUSHLAND + STORIES,” “SCRIBBLING SUE,” ETC. + + _Illustrated by John D. Moore_ + + AUSTRALIA: + ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD. + 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY + + + + + _“The Wilderness” first appeared in the + Sydney Morning Herald_ + + Wholly set up and printed in Australia by + W. C. Penfold & Co., Ltd., 88 Pitt Street, Sydney. + + Registered by the Postmaster-General for transmission + through the post as a book. + 1922 + + + + + TO + SUSIE + + WHO LOVES ALL LIVING THINGS + + + + + [Illustration: “_A soft mauve mist_”--_White Cedar_] + + + + + _THE WILDERNESS_ + + +Once, long ago, part of it was garden, and the clearing between the +redgums and ironbarks was planted with fruit trees and roses; but the +gardener went the way of all flesh, and those who came after him did +not have the same love for the garden. Now the bush has reclaimed its +own, and roses and fruit trees are half hidden by the tangle of wild +things which have gradually crept over them. Each spring the fruit +blossoms still shine out on the unpruned trees--all the lovelier for +their disorder--and mingle with the gold of the wattles; myriads +of undisturbed bulbs--ixias, freesias and sparaxis--send up their +blooms among the long swordgrass, outrivalling the blooms in my own +well-worked garden beds. + +Lovely as the bush-girt garden must have been in its orderly days, +it now holds joys undreamed of then. With the creeping return of the +wattles and tecoma, the mistletoe and hardenbergia, have come back +many of the shy living creatures which had been driven away by the +gardening; and now that there is no more digging and planting to +disturb them they live as happily as if they were a hundred miles away +from men and houses, instead of in the midst of a popular suburb. + +Fortunately the wilderness is not a desirable building allotment. The +little creek which bisects it makes the site too damp for a house, +and so no ruthless builder casts a speculative eye upon it. But the +creek is an attraction for numberless creatures--birds, butterflies, +bandicoots, frogs, and myriads of those tiny living things which we +carelessly group together as “wogs.” + +To the entomologist the wilderness would be a perfect paradise, for it +is the breeding place of many things--not all loved by the ordinary +mortal. Many species of ants have their homes down there; and paper +wasps love to make their wonderful many-celled nests on the old fruit +trees. Cicads crawl out of the soil each spring and creep up the gum +trunks to shed their husks before they wing out to fill the wilderness +with their humming song. + +[Illustration: _The Paper Wasp’s many-celled nest_] + +Trapdoor spiders lurk down near the creek, and many of the web-making +ones spin their light gossamer from branch to branch. Antlions +have their little pits to trap the unwary, and dragonflies flitter +restlessly over the water. + +[Illustration: _The Dragonfly_] + +Most interesting of all to the non-entomological mind are the +butterflies. Down in that tangle of trees, grass and ferns are to be +found the larvæ and pupæ of many butterflies which in time develop +into living jewels. On dull days, and in late afternoons, the funny +little caterpillars of the small blue butterflies march out in a solemn +procession to feed on the thick fleshy leaves of the mistletoe which +grows so lavishly throughout the wilderness. Later they wander down +from the mistletoe clumps and enter the nests of the stodgy brown +sugar-ants to pupate. It is strange to think that these gay, blue +creatures rise from among such queer bed-fellows to flutter round my +garden flowers. For in time all the full-fledged butterflies leave +the denseness of the wilderness to hover over my beds of zinnias and +larkspurs, outshining the brightest blossoms. Most gorgeous, I think, +are the vivid turquoise blue and black ones called Papilio, which +attract me by their name as much as by their beauty. Very lovely, also, +are the big brown butterflies with the eyes on their wings, while +there is a distinct fascination about the little “skippers” which vary +in shade from cream to brown, and which are known by their different +flight. + +[Illustration: _The vivid turquoise blue and black Papilio_] + +The man who made the wilderness garden must have had a true Australian +love, for even in the cultivated beds he planted native things. Along +the upper fence he put a row of silver wattles; most of them are long +since dead, and their bare branches serve as supports for the wandering +tecoma and the red-berried solanum. But their children are scattered +throughout the wilderness, making a silver-grey mist, which in spring +gives way to a golden blaze. They are in every stage of growth, and as +the older trees die off there are always new ones coming to perfection. + +Pittosporums, too, he planted, which fill the mild spring evenings +with their heavy sweetness; and many Christmas-bushes. These enjoy the +wealth of food which comes from all the leaf-mould and decay, and at +Christmas time each year their rosy branches glow like beacons through +the green glade. + +[Illustration: _The formal cypress shape of the Native Cherry_] + +Close by the creek grows one of the loveliest of the wild trees, the +native cherry (_Exocarpus cupressiformis_). There is quite an old-world +charm in its formal cypress shape, which seems to reprove the irregular +gums and she-oaks; and the gold-green of its tender tips stands out in +lovely contrast against the blue-green and silver-grey of the other +trees. When the setting sun catches it through the taller tree trunks +it glows like a fairy Christmas tree, and one can picture the little +folk dancing round it in a ring. It grows at the very edge of the once +cultivated plot, and I think the planner of that garden must have +stopped short just there in order to save the lovely thing. Beyond all +this is natural bush, with tall spotted pink orchids pushing through in +the spring-time, under the golden pultenea and dillwynia, and in summer +a white cloud of snowbush. + +There is a peculiar fascination in the mixing of wild and tame in that +wilderness. The white shasta daisies growing higher than my head in +their effort to see the sun through the too protective red-shooted +gums; the orange-flowered mistletoe drooping from the tall ironbark to +touch the appletree below, seem to me symbolical of that mixing which +should come so naturally between things--and people--of this land and +of the old. + +[Illustration: _The orange-flowered Mistletoe_] + +Of all the trees in the wilderness there is none which so completely +satisfies me as the white cedar (_Melia composita_). It grows on the +upper edge, close to my verandah, and I know it through every varying +phase. I never can decide in which season I love it most. It is one of +our few deciduous trees, and after its pale golden leaves have dropped +it is bare for a short space. Then a soft mauve mist breaks over it, +and it is covered with a myriad lilac-coloured, lilac-scented blossoms, +which pour their perfume lavishly into the world. I think it is a much +lovelier tree than the lilac, for, while its colour is not so deep, +the flowers grow in much lighter, more feathery fashion, and the whole +effect is that of a mass of misty lace. While the blossoms are at their +sweetest the little green leaf-tips have been bursting through. They +grow swiftly from slender fingers to waving tassels, and then to open +fans, and by the time the flowers are finished the tree is dressed in +a beautiful fern-like foliage of glossy green. Nor do its charms end +here. The flowers have left behind them hundreds of small green fruits, +which grow and ripen, and by the time the autumn comes again and the +leaves begin to fall they are ready to provide a beautiful feast for +the birds. And so comes the white cedar’s crowning charm. + +A tree without birds in its branches is like a room without books on +its shelves--the birds are the crowning charm. The poet knew that when +he wrote ecstatically of-- + + A tree that may in summer wear + A nest of robins in her hair. + +My white cedar does not wear any nest in her hair, but each autumn her +charm is enhanced by the beautiful green oriole in her branches. + +In autumn the fat green berries have grown golden and juicy, and the +oriole comes to feast upon them. He really has no right to be so near +Sydney nowadays, for he is one of the larger birds, which have been +driven back by the advance of the city; but somehow or other, in the +mysterious bird way, he learned of my white cedar, and each year +he comes to spend a month or so in the wilderness, feasting on the +berries, and in between meals filling the autumn day with his lovely, +clear ringing song. He is one of the lucky birds, whose voice matches +his form in beauty. For he is, indeed, a beautiful bird, with his olive +green back, creamy breast streaked with black, and bright red eye and +bill. He is big enough, too, to show up in the landscape, and towards +the end of his stay, when the cedar is nearly leafless, he makes a +lovely note of colour on the bare branches against the blue sky. + +[Illustration: _The beautiful green Oriole_] + +But he has rivals in the wilderness--many rivals, both in voice and +appearance. I am not sure that the blue jays are not more lovely to +look at. Their silvery bodies and black faces are not so gay, of +course, but they are slim and slender, and they float through the +tree-tops with wonderful grace. They come in flocks to the wilderness +during the winter, and it is a joy to watch them swaying in the +tree-tops, then darting suddenly down to catch an insect on the wing, +and up again to their swinging perch. Pity ’tis their voice has no +beauty, but is just a querulous squawking note. + +Handsome creatures, too, are the dollar-birds which visit the +wilderness every year and drift amongst the tall tree-tops, displaying +the silvery dollars on their wings against a blue-and-brown background. +But their voices!--a small boy compared them to a lot of mad frogs, +and the description is not inapt. Fortunately for our ears these +harsh-voiced birds are short-stayed visitors, but many of the birds +that linger in the wilderness are true singers. + +As I write the air is filled with the glorious song of the +butcher-birds, which stay with us all through the late summer and +autumn and sometimes come in the spring. I have heard all the old-world +songbirds--the nightingale and the lark, the blackbird and the +thrush--heard and loved them all. But for sheer beauty and volume I +know no bird whose voice compares with the butcher-bird’s, and I think +it is a sin that he should be so named. + +It is not his habit of making an occasional meal from a small bird +that has given the butcher-bird his name, for many birds have the +same habit. It is his peculiar custom of storing his food that has +gained him the reputation of keeping a “butcher’s shop.” Most birds +kill an insect as they need it and either eat it or carry it off to +their nestlings. The butcher-bird thriftily makes a small collection +of insects and lays them in a row. I have seen him lay a huge brown +grasshopper and a slim praying mantis side by side on my garden rail, +and then fly off and hang another grasshopper in a slender fork of a +wattle. + +Gould, in his famous work, pictures the butcher-bird with a blue wren +hanging from a fork in the tree beside him, a picture which naturally +ruined the bird’s reputation. I am happy to say I have never seen that +horrid tragedy, and from personal observation I think that insects are +a much more usual part of his diet than are little birds. At any rate, +with such a beautiful voice he deserves the benefit of the doubt. I +hope it is not characteristic of us that in naming him we should have +overlooked his rare beauty and pounced on his little weakness, though I +cannot help thinking that in more aesthetic lands he would have had a +name more suited to his beautiful song. + +[Illustration: _Our best autumn singer--the Butcher-bird_] + +The butcher-bird--since I must call him so--is our best autumn singer, +but in the spring his place is taken by the grey thrush. He is next, I +think, on the list of our songbirds, and his sweet ringing call holds +all the freshness and joy of spring. He is such a darling bird to +have about the place. He perches on the redgum or the wattles, which +stand in line with the white cedar, and he looks down at me with his +big round eye in the friendliest fashion. So graceful he is, too, and +so elegant in his neat grey coat, that I always place him in my mind +amongst the beautiful birds, though some might call him plain. + +Whilst you might dispute the grey thrush’s claim to beauty, no one +can deny that of two other of my songbirds, the two thickheads, or +thunderbirds, as they are sometimes called, because they burst into +song after a clap of thunder or any sudden noise. The yellow-breasted +one is very gorgeous, with his white throat and black face; but the +rufous-breasted one is handsome, too. Sometimes he breaks into a +whip-like note, which has earned him the name of “ring-coachie” amongst +small boys. Once, on a rare occasion, the coachwhip bird himself sent +his call up from the little creek. As every one knows, the coachwhip +bird is a shy, furtive creature, rarely seen by anyone but real bird +observers, though his voice is common enough in the gullies. We +are nearly a mile away from the gully where he lives, and he must +have crept up through the intervening gardens to have a look at the +wilderness. Just once he came, but though I have looked and listened I +have had no sign or sound of him since. + +A very familiar birdcall in the wilderness is that of the cuckoo--or I +should say “calls of the cuckoos,” for there are five different sorts, +with five different calls, amongst our regular visitors. Of course, +none of them says “cuckoo.” Once I used to cherish a secret feeling +of resentment that we should have so many true cuckoos in Australia +without one possessing the call associated with the name. But after +four English Mays, in which the cuckoo calls all day, I thanked fate +that I lived in a land where the cuckoo did not say “cuckoo” from dawn +till long after dark. For a more monotonous birdcall I have never +known. Our big scrub-cuckoo, the Koel, is nearest to it in monotony; +but the five that visit the wilderness have quite different songs. +True, the fantail and the two little bronze cuckoos have merely +plaintive Whistles, but the big pallid cuckoo has a fine ringing +song right up the scale, and the square-tailed calls over and over a +distinct phrase, in a higher key each time. + +[Illustration: _A simple creature_] + +The shrike-tit, that gorgeous yellow-and-black fellow with the black +crest, is one of the loveliest birds amongst our regular visitors, +and one of my favourites, for he has such an unsuspicious nature. His +long drawn out, rather plaintive note is very easy to imitate, and we +can always bring him down to us by repeating the call. Again and again +I have seen the simple creature hurrying through the wilderness in +response to a human whistle, and flying wonderingly from tree to tree +in search of his calling rival. Sometimes he comes within a few feet of +us, dancing with rage and chattering angrily at the hidden intruder, +before he discovers the fraud and flies off in disgust. + +[Illustration: _The attractive Lalage_] + +A visitor which has a particular attraction for me is the Lalage. I +like his smart coat of black and white and grey, and I like his sweet +trilling song, but what I like most is his name--his scientific name. +For he is one of the few birds whose scientific name is preferable to +the vernacular or the colloquial; _Lalage tricolor_ is far prettier and +easier to say than “White-shouldered caterpillar-eater,” or the stupid +“peewee lark.” Other birds that visit us occasionally are parrots. +I have noticed five kinds--Rosellas, Mountain Lowrie, Blue Mountain +parrots, and two little green lorikeets. They have always come when the +eucalypts are in flower, and I love to see their gay bodies flashing +against the creamy blossoms as they feed noisily on the honey. If only +people would realize how much life and colour they bring to their +gardens by retaining food-giving trees, I am sure they would not be so +ruthless about cutting down trees to make way for roses and dahlias. +No bed of flowers could be so soul-satisfying as the sight of a flock +of parrakeets feeding in the honey-laden blossoms of a flower-covered +bloodwood. + +Just as gay as the parrots, though very, very much smaller, is the +red-headed honey-eater, or bloodbird, as he is more familiarly known. +He is also a honey lover, and visits us when the trees are in blossom. +His bright red-and-black coat makes a vivid spot of colour, and his +pretty little song adds to the general harmony. + +The profusion of mistletoe in the wilderness brings us the +mistletoe-bird. Few people really know this tiny steel-blue +crimson-breasted fellow, or his plain grey little wife. Yet his single +whistle, like that of a small boy who has just learned to whistle +through his teeth, is one of the commonest sounds in the bush, and the +mated birds call continuously when feeding in different clumps, as if +they feared to lose touch with one another. One of the great charms +of a wattle, which till lately stood beside my verandah, was that its +leafy tops were beloved by the mistletoe-bird. When he had taken his +fill of the luscious and viscid berries which dropped from the redgum +by the gate, he would retire to the wattle, hide himself amongst the +grey-green foliage, and pour out an ecstasy of song in the tiniest of +voices. Many birds, even to so bold a fellow as the butcher-bird, have +this habit of hiding amongst the thickest leaves and soliloquizing, but +none has a more impassioned utterance than the little mistletoe-bird, +though none has so slender a song. + +Sometimes we find their nest, one of the most wonderfully built of all +birds’ nests. It is woven from fine plant fibres and silky seeds, and +is hung from a slender twig, with a little entrance at the side; it is +very like a little purse of felt, save that it is not so harsh to the +touch as felt. + +[Illustration: _Spine-billed Honeyeater_] + +One more of our visitors I must mention, and that is the native canary, +which comes each year, builds his little domed nest in a sapling, and +fills the air with his sweet song. Then there are the everyday birds, +the dear, familiar things which are with us all the year round. Every +gardener knows them--blue wrens and tits, jacky winters and yellow +robins, redheads and spinebills, peewees and kookaburras--they are the +usual inhabitants of our suburban gardens, and dear to us all because +of their friendly, fearless ways. Other birds come and go, but they +stay with us all the time, building and breeding in the wilderness +each spring. In the two years that I have known this wild patch I have +counted seventy-two species of birds passing through. Some, as I have +said, are there all the time; some come at certain seasons, sing for a +space amongst the tree-tops, feed for a week or so on the berries and +blossoms, then pass on to other feeding grounds, while others stay just +for an hour, glad of a safe and sheltered resting-place on their long, +mysterious journeys to and fro across the land. + +[Illustration: _So tame and friendly--Blue Wrens_] + +Fascinating as the wilderness is by day, it is at night that one feels +its deepest spell. Then all the strange elusive creatures come out +from their hiding places, and go about their business in the tree-tops +or down under the thick shrubs. One needs keen hearing to know the +wilderness by night, for eyes alone are not much good. + +I can never make up my mind which I love most--the birds that live all +the year round in the wilderness, and are so tame and friendly that +they come right up on to my verandah and sit and sing within a yard of +my chair, or the visitors which bring the feeling of distant places +with them, and carry my thoughts far, far away. But of one thing I am +sure, and that is my gratitude to the man who left this little wild +patch in the heart of the houses to be a sanctuary for all wild things. +Noisy people passing by may think it is a mere empty patch of trees; +but we who have sat silently on our verandah through the long still +summer evenings and listened to the whisperings and stirrings, know +that there is a distinct world of living things waking and moving down +there in the shadows. + +[Illustration: _Long-nosed Bandicoot_] + +First of all there are the bandicoots, two kinds of them, amusingly +named the long-nosed and the fat bandicoot. One stumbles over a few +of their holes by day, but no other sign of them is there; yet at +night out they come by the dozen. We hear them rustling through the +long swordgrass, right up to the garden where occasionally--not +often--they do considerable damage by rooting amongst my bulbs. Their +queer little cough always betrays them, though I must admit they do not +seem at all anxious about hiding their presence. It always gives me a +distinct thrill of pleasure to hear that quaint little note just beside +my verandah, and its wild touch is a happy contrast to the jazz music +thumped out by my neighbour’s pianola. More silent than the bandicoots, +though no more stealthy, are the ring-tailed ’possums, of which there +are quite a number in the wilderness. Last summer one built on the roof +of our verandah, and every evening, as we sat having our coffee in the +dusk, we used to hear his little patter across the flat roof. We could +see him leap forth into a branch of the tall wattle which bent towards +the verandah, then up and across to the taller redgum beyond, and away +down into the heart of the wilderness. Sometimes when the hot summer +nights have driven off sleep I have heard him in the dawn, scrambling +back to bed, just as the birds have been waking up. I must confess that +I felt very proud at having such a rare and distinguished lodger. + +[Illustration: _The Big ’Possum_] + +Occasionally we see the big ’possum. I am not quite sure where he +lives, though I know two or three likely spots; but now and then he +comes right out into the open, and we both see and hear him. One +moonlight night he was feeding on the cedar berries not ten yards from +the verandah, and even if his clawing and crunching of the berries had +not betrayed him, he was quite visible as he hung on the swaying bough +amongst the fern-like leaves, while every now and then as he moved I +could see his big eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. + +[Illustration: _Then there are Owls_] + +Then there are owls--three or four sorts of them--which drift in +absolute silence from place to place. On moonlit nights a sudden shadow +floats on the ground before you, and if you look up quickly enough you +will see a white form settling silently on a branch or post. If you +keep very still and watch patiently you may see him dart down to catch +some flying insect, or make a sudden swoop at a mouse in the grass +below. How they see their prey is always one of the wonders of nature +to me, but apparently they never miss. I like the names of my owls--the +delicate owl, the masked owl and the Boobook owl--the last so named +from his familiar double note “Boo-book.” + +The old mopoke, who for many years got the credit for the boo-book +owl’s note, lives in the wilderness, too. Like most of the nocturnal +creatures, he likes the tall redgum which stands beside my gate, and +he sits there for an hour at a time constantly uttering his soft +mysterious note, “Oom, oom, oom.” Sometimes he comes closer, on to +the fence, or even on to the verandah post itself. In the daytime he +sits silently for ages in what must be a most uncomfortable position, +pretending to be a branch of the tree, but at night he gives himself +away by his “Oom, oom, oom,” for even the dullest human knows that +trees don’t say “Oom, oom, oom.” Still, he is clever at catching his +food, and the nocturnal insects find him as formidable as the owls. + +Whenever we have a few days rain the little creek in the wilderness +fills up, and then the frogs make high holiday. Most people will tell +you that a frog croaks, and leave it at that. But, as a matter of +fact, in proportion to their numbers, there is as great a variety in +frog songs as in birds’. Once you have realized the differences you +will wonder however you were so stupid as to think them all the same. +There is the deep “Craw-craw, craw-craw” of the big green tree-frog, +_Hyla coerulea_; the familiar chant, “Craw-awk, crawk, crok, crok,” of +the golden tree-frog, _Hyla aurea_--I give you their scientific names +because they are so charming--the slow “Kuk-kuk-kuk,” and the high, +piping, hurried “Cree-cree-cree-cree” of two other _Hylas_. Then there +is the insect-like “Crikik, crikik” of the little brown _Crinia_, and +the harsher “creek” of the tiny brown toadlet. The two frogs which +rejoice in the name of _Limnodynastes_, “King of the pool,” have +quite different notes. One has an explosive “Toc, toc, toc,” like a +machine gun, and the other calls “Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk.” Then the funny old +burrowing frog calls softly “Oo-oo-oo-oo,” and sounds more like a bird +than a frog. + +On fine mornings after rain, when the croakings overnight have told me +what is afoot, I visit the little creek to see which of the frogs have +spawned. A patch of froth, like soapsuds, with tiny spheres of black +and white embedded in it, is the egg-mass of one or other of the two +species of _Limnodynastes_. Two kinds of eggs are neatly arranged in +cylindrical bunches round the submerged roots and grasses. Each egg is +surrounded by a sphere of clear jelly, and a thin gelatinous matrix +envelopes all the eggs. Those of _Crinia_ are black and white, those of +_Hyla ewingi_ brown and cream. Floating on the surface, as if peppered +over it, are the brown-and-white eggs of _Hyla coerulea_; while hidden +under the debris round the edges of the water I find the much larger +eggs of the little _Pseudophryne_, twenty to a nest, with the gaily +orange-marked mother toadlet in attendance. + +[Illustration: _A balloon almost as big as the frog itself_] + +All are amusing, as frogs have ever been since the days of Aesop and +Aristophanes; but there is none so amusing as the big green tree-frog, +_Hyla coerulea_. He is the one that makes the great frog concert in +moist places, and many a bad sleeper has cursed him for croaking on +all through the hours of darkness. But once you have seen one of these +frog gatherings you can never feel quite the same about their chorus. +Amusement will temper your irritation. They come from all round the +neighbourhood to the meeting place, and in the dusk you may even trip +over the large green frogs hopping along the footpath on their way +from neighbouring gardens. Often the gathering numbers hundreds, and +they sit about the edge of the pond, in the grass, and on the stones, +chanting loudly. And at each deep note a great balloon swells out in +front of the throat, a balloon almost as big as the frog itself, going +up and down, up and down, as each deep note goes out and the breath +comes back for the next boom. I know of nothing in the whole bush quite +so ludicrous as a frogs’ party, and I must confess that the knowledge +that so few people have attended one adds to its interest. There is +a rare satisfaction in being on intimate terms with the really shy, +strange, wild creatures. If you would share my pleasure all you need +do is to keep a little wild patch of bush near your home. For wherever +there is sanctuary the shy bush things will come and make their homes +beside you. + + +W. C. Penfold & Co. Ltd., Printers, 88 Pitt Street, Sydney + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77055 *** |