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The Wilderness

By Amy Eleanor Mack

-Knx.

THE WILDERNESS

'A soft mauve mist" — White Cedar

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

Stack

07

TO

SUSIE

WHO LOVES ALL LIVING THINGS

2219749

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."

The Wilderness

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 hum- The FaPer

many-celled nest

ming song.

Trapdoor spiders lurk down near the creek, and many of the web-
making ones spin their light gossamer from branch to branch. Ant-
lions have their little pits to
trap the unwary, and dragon-
flies flitter restlessly over the

water.
•^ if Nf^^"^-«-^i^^'^-^:-^

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 larvae

and pupas 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

The Dragonfly

The Wilderness

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.

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

The vivid turquoise
blue and black Papilio

The Wilderness

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.

Close by the creek grows
one of the loveliest of the wild
trees, the native cherry (Exocar-
pus 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

The formal cypress shape
of the Native Cherry

The Wilderness

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.

Of all the trees in the wilderness
there is none which so completely
satisfies me as the white cedar (Mel fa
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-

The orange-flowered
scented blossoms, which pour their Mistletoe '

*fa I

"Hfe^w^

$8

m^

The Wilderness

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

The Wilderness

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.

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,

The Wilderness

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 song-
birds— 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

12

The Wilderness

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

Our best autumn
singer — the
Butcher-bird

The Wilderness

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 weak-
ness, though I cannot help thinking that in more aesthetic lands he
would have had a name more suited to his beautiful song.

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

The Wilderness

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.

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 A simple creature

The Wilderness

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.

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."

16

The Wilderness

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 blossorrvs 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 con-
tinuously 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 be-
loved 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,

17

The Wilderness

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.

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
found. 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 wilder-
ness 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,

Spine-billed Honeyeater

18

The Wilderness

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.

y*8

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

The Wilderness

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.

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

The Wildernes

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 bandi-
coots, though no more stealthy, are the ring-tailed 'possums, of which

The Big 'Possum

The Wilderness

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 con-
fess that I felt very proud at
having such a rare and dis-
tinguished lodger.

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

The Wilderness

now and then as he moved I could see his big eyes shining
brightly in the moonlight.

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

23

The Wilderness

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 Hyjas. 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 " Toe, toe, toe," like a machine gun,
and the other calls " Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk." Then the funny old burrow-
ing 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, 1 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.

24

The W i I d c r n c s s

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 con-
cert in moist places, and many a
bad steeper 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 hun-
dreds, and they sit about the
edge of the pond, in the grass,
and on the stones, chanting

A balloon almost as
big as the frog itself

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

The Wilderness

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. Penfcld & Co. L d.. Printers, 88 Pi.t Street, Sydney