CHAPTER VIII

DAYS AMONG THE ROBINS

TO THOSE WHO know, or have known, the Australian Robins “at home” — in their native haunts — the very name carries a strong suggestion of the free spaces of the land. There is a subtle tang in the word, something to make the heart beat faster at the impulse of memories of Winter days among the little scarlet gems of the open areas, and Springtime communings with the yellow-breasted nymphs of the woods. What a happy coincidence it is, too, that most of the scientific titles bestowed upon these lovable birds hold a pleasant significance! Moreover, if not all of them are musical, they have nothing of the “mouth-filling” appearance that causes some folk to wrinkle supercilious noses at certain Latin names.

Australia has, as set out by the Royal Australasian Ornithologists’ Union, as many as 26 varieties of Robins, divided into eight genera. Comprising these are Red-breasts (4), Wood-Robins (4), Dusky-Robins (2), Shrike-Robins (12), Scrub-Robins (3), and one Fly-Robin. With the point as to whether any or all of these birds are true Robins according to the scientific standard I am not concerned; it is sufficient to know that they are of economic value to Australia, that many of them are considerably more beautiful than the Robins of other lands, and that some are as pleasantly fraternal as “the honest Robin that loves mankind” in the hard winter of the old world. By the same token, though, how useful it is for our Robins to be able to claim kinship with the estimable bird of Britain, giving them, as it does, a place in human affections that may not have been so readily attained on their merits!

For instance: A class of small school-children in Victoria was absorbed one day in a collection of museum specimens of birds, familiar and otherwise. The full interest of childhood was given every bird, but entusiasm was reserved for the Robin — the Red-breast of their nursery rhymes. And no repetition was needed of the invitation: “Tell me what you know about the Robin.”

“Please, sir,” said a small girl, “its nest is cold.”

Here was a nice puzzle. Nesting Australian birds are more troubled by heat than cold. Then a recollection stirred to the occasion, and I recited gravely:

Welcome, little Robin,

With the scarlet breast,

In this winter weather

Cold must be your nest.

“Is that what you were thinking of?” An excited little girl said “Yes, sir!” and presently every sympathetic child was chanting in unison:

Is the story true, Robin,

You were once so good

To the little orphans

Sleeping in the wood? . . .

Our most familiar Robin of the woods is not, however, one of the scarlet birds which grace the fields of winter, but a relative with a breast of jonquil yellow. Probably almost every school-child in southern New South Wales, Victoria, and South Australia is on more or less intimate terms with the Yellow-breasted Shrike-Robin — colloquially the “Yellow-Bob” or “Bark-Robin,” scientifically Eopsaltria Australis (Eos, dawn; psaltria, a harpist), the Australian Psalmist of the Dawn. Among all the bird-studies that have appeared in magazines from time to time, probably no other species has proved to be so favored of our steadily growing band of bird photographers. The inference is obvious. Few among the smaller species of our feathered Australians are so readily located, and certainly no other is so “approachable,” so well adapted to photography at the nest. It has what John Burroughs ascribed to a certain American bird, “civil and neighborly ways,” and that practically the whole year through. The Yellow-Bob is no wanderer. It will remain faithful to one area amid all the process of the seasons, and frequently in spite of adversity.

When the mellow days of Autumn have given place to the severity of the southern Winter, when the migratory birds have all gone north and the nomads are wandering restlessly, the constancy of our small friend of the yellow breast and grey back makes his presence very gracious to the bush rambler. Go where you will, and you show yourself worthy the honor, the Yellow-Bob soon appears to give greeting. Sit down quietly in some bush recess, and it will not be many minutes ere one of these wood-nymphs has found you out. Then, with wings raised slightly, like inquiring eyebrows, he will inspect you from the vantage-point of the side of a tree — a favorite position for this bird — and, being assured, as like as not he will come and sit close by you for as long as you care to stay. There comes to mind the morning of a bright autumnal day, when I sat in a sun-streaked bush recess reading of “the ruddock with charitable bill” in Shakespeare’s “Winter’s Tale.” And a philosophic little bird in yellow and grey, bunched upon a limb close by, betrayed the most profound interest in the whole recital.

Some naturalists have laid it down that a bird’s silence invests it with an air of mystery. I do not find this to be the case with the Yellow-Robin. Certainly it is one of the quietest of our smaller birds, yet its pretty, trustful ways, combined with the eloquence expressed by its wings and tail, establish an understanding and sympathy between itself and the observer. Perhaps it is because of its voiceful performances at dawn and dusk that this bird remains comparatively silent during the full day. Apparently one of the unshakable rules of the whole genus is that its members must salute the morn and vesper the eve with a steady, melodiously solemn chanting. It was the hearing of this voice of Australia speaking “in the dim hour ’twixt dreams and dawn” that persuaded an unusually imaginative scientist to bestow upon the chief member of the genus a title immortalising the bird as the Australian Psalmist of the Dawn. And it is this melody that has helped to win for the Yellow-Bob a firm place in the affections of all lovers of Nature.

But not always is Robin silent in the fulness of daytime. A short time ago I heard one chuckling away to itself with all the melody, if not strength, of a soliloquising Butcher-Bird. In sooth, it is a rash thing to deny powers of song to any of these little Australians on the superficial basis of our not having heard them lift up their voices.

Robin has a call, too — an intimate, thrilling “word” — more potent to move the heart of the bird-lover than any mere song, something as characteristic of the coming of Spring in Southern Australia as is the wandering voice of the Cuckoo in the Old World. You hear it first in the dying days of July, when the beautiful golden wattle is coming again to its all-assertive glory. It is the faint, yet resonant, nesting call, which, once heard, is associated ever afterwards with the haunting fragrance of wattle and the breaking of Winter’s sway.

Soon, then, the pretty little bark homes begin to take shape. That these dainty nests are well known is not altogether the fault of their owners. For, in the majority of cases, they harmonise so neatly with the bark of the trees in which they are placed — as do also the pretty eggs with the green of the leaves hanging above — that it is easy for the casual rambler to pass them by unnoticed. Personally, I have discovered dozens of these homes, and almost always the cause has been familiarity with the interchange of signals between the birds as the unique feeding process is in progress.

Unlike most other species, the Shrike-Robins seldom take turn about on the nest. Their menage is based on an even happier arrangement. Mother does the brooding and father the foraging; and on this basis there is enacted a delightful domestic scene with each of the numerous meals — the more spectacular if there be babies in the nest. A beakful of luscious insects secured, the little lord clings in that funny Robin way of his to the side of a tree, possibly 15 or 20 yards from the nest. Thence he emits a faint note of inquiry. Immediately the quiet mother on the nest is all animation. Both wings quiver tremulously, and her pipe keeps rapid time with “Me-me-me-me, yes please,” and the notes are cut off sharply as the Psalmist flits up swiftly and silently, places the offering in her bill with astonishing rapidity, and is away again as quickly as he came. The wings in the nest that were so “troubled and thrilled with ecstasy” are folded quietly for a brief space as the mother bird “prepares” the morsel in her beak; then she stands, hops back to the edge of the nest, and feeds the young.

The camera can record much, but it must ever fail to re-create the moving, loving expressions of the mother Robin as she spreads her wings over the babies, snuggling and snuggling until they are perfectly comfortable. “Bairnies, cuddle doon,” the pretty actions plainly say, and if a bairn is unduly restless the parent will stand erect on the edge of the nest, look fondly down at the little one, and deliberately soothe it into quietude. Over many years I can see still the devoted mother of a Robin family to which I first gave close attention, photographic and otherwise.

I made their acquaintance towards the end of September, the mother then being in proud possession of a nest neatly and protectively built into a fork created by a branch shooting out from a trunk of a box-tree, and having the usual nest-carpet of small dry leaves. Early in October one of the two handsome eggs gave forth life, and the useless one was cast out. Possibly it was because they had only one babe to attend that the parents grew more solicitous for its welfare than is customary even with Robins. From the moment that little black ball of quivering flesh stirred beneath her the mother became a fanatic, and displayed little fear of the inquisitive eye of a stand-camera placed below the nest. Too much movement would cause her to flutter away, but very soon she would be back, guarding the treasure again.

In the course of time the camera secured an example of the bird crouching, a clever device no other species can exercise so well. Sitting on the solitary young one, the mother would be moving her head in all directions in anticipation of possible danger, when the crackle of a footstep on dry leaves would come faintly to her. Apparently it was quite obvious to the little creature that her back was protectively colored grey, while the yellow of the breast was noticeable, for instantly she would sink flat down in the nest until only the tip of the bill and a bright eye were visible above the rim. It was a matter for wonder that the bird could efface herself so completely. What was more curious still, the knowing little thing always distinguished between human and animal steps; at the soft pad of a dog she would start up and peep inquiringly over the edge of her bark dwelling.

It was worth while, too, walking close to the home and looking in another direction. Then the mother would hop swiftly off, drop almost flush with the ground, and fly softly into the scrub. But never did she go far away, and, directly the little one gave a call of alarm, the brave parent would go almost frantic with anxiety, and be back putting up a splendidly natural imitation of a young or disabled bird. The Chats, the Ground-Thrushes, and one or two of the Honeyeaters are artists at this ruse, but none of them can spread the feathers and assume the fluffy, babyish appearance of the mother Robin. The effect created is quite pitiful, and more so when the distraught little bird stretches her wings to drag along the ground, and, anon, raises them till the primary feathers touch above the back. As soon, though, as the danger passes, the small actor is herself again, and, on the instant, is cuddling her little ones in that typically tender manner of the Robins.

Probably these sprites remain faithful to the one partner while life lasts. I have seen three birds feeding a single brood of potential Psalmists, but it seemed to me that number three was a lonely member of an earlier brood, practising on his baby brethren.

It was a pair of Yellow Robins which nested in the same district as those particularly devoted parents that provided the most remarkable instance of pertinacity I have experienced in Birdland. Early in August of 1912 they built first in a thin sapling. The time was too early for such a precarious position, and the high winds blew the frail structure sidelong. With a piece of pliable sapling I tied the home up and saved the precious eggs, whereat the mother came back at once, and sat serenely, until the next strong breeze blew the insecure structure to pieces. But the material was not wasted; the birds gathered it up and built, more wisely, in the fork of a sturdy sapling some twenty yards away. Here they were safe from the winds, but not from other dangers, and presently there were two of the pretty pink eggs of the Bronze Cuckoo to keep the green ones company. Some birds throw the Cuckoos’ eggs out, but this pair accepted them in good faith, and soon a young Cuckoo was hatched out. The interloper would probably have thrown the Robins’ eggs or young ones out very soon, but for another development: a marauding bird took the lot.

Still the plucky Robins stuck to their chosen locality; they built again, low to the ground, at a point about ten yards from each of the previous sites. But once more they were doomed to disappointment, either a reptile or a small boy — they are equal in point of pestiferousness in this regard — confiscating the third set of eggs.

It was November by this time, and the Psalmist and his indomitable wife must have been growing dubious about the desirableness of their chosen locality. However, they emulated the Bruce’s spider — tried again, and succeeded. The fourth nest was built opposite the third, and the whole quartette was within a radius of forty yards. By January a proud pair led forth a lusty brood, and their confidence in the locality was sufficiently restored to persuade them to nest there again during the ensuing Spring.

Our familiar little friend is the only one of its kind in the south-eastern portion of the continent. At some indefinite point in New South Wales the species blends into a prettier relative, in whose case the yellow of the breast is continued on the lower portion of the back. Then, in the coastal district of central Queensland, the brightness of the rump fades, and a replica of the southern bird, albeit a trifle smaller, appears, to be replaced in turn by another brightly marked species in the jungles of the north.

Why this curious undulation in color?’ With such markings as the orange wing-patch of the Tree-Creepers, the yellow rump of the Tit-Warbler, and similar features of other birds of the open areas, the Wallace theory of “warning colors” may well apply — and it would seem that yellow is a distinctive color to the eye of a bird. But the consideration must be carried further in the remarkable case of the Robins, where the bright patch is possessed only by those birds which dwell in the thick jungles and dimly lit gullies. As in the other cases quoted, this feature is noted most distinctly when the bird is flying; but the Robin’s quaint habit of clinging to the side of a tree, with its back to the visitor and wings poised inquiringly, makes the golden rump to be noticeable even when the bird is at rest.

This fact became vividly apparent on an evening when I watched a pair of Shrike-Robins in a tea-tree gully near Brisbane. The flitting forms of the birds could hardly be seen in the half-darkness, but when they clung to trees the golden rump could be discerned with a strange clearness. It seemed, indeed, to impart a certain glow, not unlike the phosphorescent “light” which skirts the mouths of young birds born in dark places. And so I assume that patch of gold to be not so much a danger signal as one of Nature’s beacons, an attribute unnecessary to birds which live in the sun.

The observations that have been made with regard to the friendly Yellow Robin of the South apply in the main also to its prettier relative of the North. The nests and general housekeeping arrangements are alike — the male feeds the female on the nest — and there is the same questioning flick of the tail, tilt of the wings, and sharp “Clip, clip” of the wings when the bird is making a flying inspection of a newcomer. Here again, too, you get those neighborly, sociable ways, even though the habitat of the bird makes it rather more of a recluse than the better-known Robin of the South.

The first occasion on which I met the Yellow-tailed Robin is remembered well because of a clever flanking movement on the part of the bird. Leaning against a large tea-tree, I lost sight of my new-made acquaintance as it described a semi-circle, and turned soon to find a pair of round eyes, bright with inquiry, making a close examination from a few yards to the rear!

Mark, too, the almost startling experience of a young settler residing on a mountain in south-eastern Queensland. In all soberness, he relates that, as he stood panting one day after felling a tree, a Yellow Robin flew up, clung to his lip, and pecked at the white teeth. The story is too good to be doubted, especially when one remembers the penchant which young birds have for pecking at teeth when being fed from a human mouth.

Taking the other varieties of Robin by and large, the first point to strike the student is the uneven and curious nature of their distribution. Why, for instance, should Tasmania, which has no Shrike-Robins, also be minus Scrub-Robins, Black and White Robins, Red-capped Robins, and Rose-breasted Wood-Robins? May we take it that the island State was separated from the mainland before these particular branches of the family were evolved? The puzzle is the more profound in respect of the two birds last-mentioned; for the pretty Red-cap is a close relative of the Scarlet- and Flame-breasted Robins, both of which are commensurately more plentiful in Tasmania than on the mainland, and the rose-breasted sprite of the woods is allied to the Pink-breasted Wood-Robin, which is also fairly plentiful in portions of the island State.

Moreover, apart from the question of definite distribution, what a lot there is to be learned concerning the seasonal movements and general wanderings of certain of these birds with the roseate breasts. The Red-capped and Scarlet-breasted Robins may be passed over lightly. There is no particular mystery about their comings and goings. They are two of the three species of red-breasts which create such beautiful patches of color in the green fields of Winter. Perhaps the Red-cap is the more widely distributed. Certainly it leaves Tasmania out of its orbit, but it is found in many of the drier out-back portions of the mainland, where other Robins seldom, if ever, venture. And, in Springtime, the nests of both of these species have been freely found in various parts of the eastern States.

Not so in the case of the Flame-breast. Its nest has rarely been found outside of Tasmania. Indeed, the showy bird itself has not often been seen in Australia proper other than in the cooler months. Towards the end of April of each year the females of the species — unobtrusive brownish birds, with a touch of white in the wings — arrive unostentatiously in the open areas, and, within a week or so, their gaily dressed lords follow. No one ever sees them actually arrive. No one ever sees them recommence their journey. Nevertheless, flocks of Flame-breasts have been observed, several times, en route from the mainland to Tasmania, and so the belief has become established that, on some obscure prompting, these little creatures (whose wings are not made for long distances) journey annually backwards and forwards over Bass Strait, and do not, as John Gould had it, “retire to the forest to breed.”

To some extent, however, this theory is discounted by the fact that a fair number of Flame-breasts are to be found in Tasmania all the year round. At the present stage, then, the indications are that this one species of Robin does actually undertake this annual “sea trip,” but that, in each Springtime, a certain number of Flame-breasts elect to nest on the mainland, and that a larger number still spend their whole time in Tasmania.

The housekeeping of all the little Petroicas is on much the same lines. They build dainty nests of bark and fibres, half the size of the homes of the Shrike-Robins. The usual site is a tree-fork or the cleft of a stump, but frequently the Flame- and Scarlet-breasts choose the upturned roots of fallen trees. The length of time required for the males to assume their gorgeous livery is probably two or three years. But they do not wait for that before mating; it is not uncommon to see the birds nesting in adolescent plumage, when the male is indistinguishable in color from the female.

The Pink and Rose-breasted Wood-Robins (Erythrodryas) were formerly grouped with the Red Robins of the fields. They are, however, quite unlike these in many respects. Their habitat is the semi-humid gullies of the eastern and southern coast, and, whereas their relatives wage war against the ground insects, these small wood-nymphs take most of their food on the wing. Here, again, the problem of distribution and movements is a real one. These kin-spirits, who are so much alike that they were confused for many years, breed together in the gullies of Gippsland. After that they part company. The larger Pink-breast is found nowhere but in Victoria, South Australia, and Tasmania, while the tiny Rose-breast spreads northward from Victoria, through New South Wales, to Queensland.

About the middle of April of each year I go to a certain tea-tree gully — in the neighborhood of Brisbane — to welcome back the Rose Robins. If they are not there one day they will be there the next, announcing their presence with a faint, tremulous “He-e-e-re.” Watch closely, then, and you will see a faint flutter of wings in the tree-tops, and presently a rosy-hued male or grey-garbed female will come into view, twinkling gauzy wings in a remarkable fashion typical of the species. No other bird known to me has this pretty habit developed to such a pronounced extent. The quivering of the wings affected by the Shrike-Robins and Shrike-Tits is a thing apart, an ecstatic motion born of nesting-time; moreover, the rose-breasted birds of Autumn do not so much quiver their wings as impart to them a winnowing motion, now stretching them above the back, now drooping them about the feet, while filtering light gives to the extended feathers a delicately translucent quality. And when the bird takes flight from tree to tree it resembles nothing so much as a long-tailed butterfly.

I hope I have not developed into the officious showman in respect of my friends the bush birds, but there is always delight in taking an appreciative visitor to make the acquaintance of this particular Robin, whose beautiful presence is one of the chief features of the tea-tree glades in Winter — that is, for those whose eyes and ears are sufficiently skilled to catch the faint, insect-like chirp and slender little form. There was a Sabbath afternoon in May when two grave and reverend signiors, one a Scottish divine and the other a University lecturer, found themselves wandering on and on through a tea-tree glade, and enjoying, quite as much as an ordinary bird-lover, the sermon preached by the Rose Robins on the wisdom of being chiefly merry and bright.

If the Rose Robin is essentially cheerful, that is not to say that the bird is a model of amiability. On at least two occasions I have seen a male and female of the species sitting lengthwise on a horizontal bough, and “Churr-churring” at each other in most animated fashion, the bright-breasted bird apparently being the moving spirit in each case. On another day, as I walked along a road skirting a tea-tree gully, attention was claimed by a strange bird-note, a sharp “Tick-tick,” as of a twig snapping; and presently there flashed into view a beautiful male Rose Robin, fleeing ignominiously from an excited little female of the species!

Again, on August 31, 1918 — the date is notable as the latest record for Erythrodryas rosea amid the tea-tree — I was watching a lordly little Scarlet Honeyeater coming down to a pool, when he was forced to flee from the onslaught of a pugnacious Robin of the opposite sex, who then turned her unladylike attentions to an inoffensive Tree-Tit. This particular Robin was the most consummate of all wing-artists, extending the pinions wide rather than drooping them low about the feet.

Whether the females of the Rose Robins (as in the case of the Flame-breasts) are the first to lead the way on the annual pilgrimages cannot yet be said with any certainty. I was inclined to return an affirmative answer to the question until the year 1919, when I saw my first Robin as early as April 13, a bright-breasted male bird, which sat quietly in a leafy sapling, as though tired out after a long journey.

With the coming of September the little drooping wings are no longer seen in these Queensland gullies. The birds have moved off in the warming nights of late August, and are then working their way down the coast to southern New South Wales and the recesses of Gippsland, or up into the coolness of the coastal ranges. In the absence of ornithological evidence on the point — for it is strange how little has been written of this fascinating bird — the non-discovery of Rose Robins’ nests in Queensland seemed to indicate a distinct southern migration with each Springtime, just as it was formerly believed that the Flame-breasts of the mainland crossed to Tasmania with the passing of Winter.

The finding of several pairs of Rose Robins dwelling on the shaggy heights of the Macpherson Range and Bunya Mountains (South Queensland), during the latter part of the year, has caused a modification of this view. Interstate migration may be practised by the Robins, but certainly it is neither complete nor general. How strange it is, then, that Queensland yet lacks a record of the discovery of the dainty nest of little Erythrodryas of the rose breast! Conversely, too, is it not curious that the species is not remarked on during the Winter of Victoria?

For here in Southern Queensland the birds are not at all rare, either amid the tea-tree or elsewhere, during the cooler months. Indeed, I hear the queer little call at this time in almost all classes of country about Brisbane, and for at least 100 miles farther north, sometimes nearly a score of miles inland, and sometimes right on the margin of the sea.