Bird Life on Island and Shore
V. The Stitchbird of Little Barrier Island
V. The Stitchbird of Little Barrier Island.
Armed with permission to land and with hands further strengthened by introductions to Mr Nelson, the best of all possible caretakers, I and my companion, John Leask, reached Little Barrier Island at daybreak one fine morning in early October. This sanctuary is, I believe, the stump of an old volcanic pile still, after years of quietude, so split and rifted that water a hundred or two feet above sea - level is unobtainable after a few days of drought; its streams, too, flow only during flood.
Where in early times the aboriginal kauri forest has been cleared, manuka and kanuka clothe the hillsides. There are considerable tracts of low-growing woods tangled and roped with lawyer, clematis, and, most delayingly, with twisted growth of maugemange—climbing fern. It, as also the elegant slender tree-fern and others, were strangers viewed for the first time, but many species well - known elsewhere were undergoing such modification in the warmth of this semi-tropical island that I feel sure another hundred miles northward projection would have necessitated a new nomenclature. Midway between the manuka belts and the damp densely massed dripping thickets of the high tops, lay shaded waterways and winding irregular valleys supporting most noble tarairi and puriri. About the caretaker's house extend a few acres of mixed alien and native grasses. There are a few yards—not more—of naked rock on the very peaks, for even the cliffs of these mist-visited tops are green with moss, filmy ferns, and delicate shrubbery. The unindented, harbourless, repellent shores of the island are piled high with huge smooth boulders. Ship timber and wreckage of small craft strew the beaches, little Barrier Island is, in fact, an ideal sanctuary, sea arid shore alike combining to protect the woods and their inhabitants.
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West Landing At L.B.I.
The first nest of a species, about which no field naturalist facts are available, is always difficult to locate. In our search for the Stitchbird's nest we were ignorant whether perchance it was to be discovered on the ground or high in the air; amongst bunched green twigs of kanuka, often favoured by the Whitehead; in thicker scrub, such as is preferred by the Tui and Bellbird; in deep holes in timber like the Parrakeet; in rifts and chinks like the Rifleman; in hollowed knees and elbows of trees like the Tit; on shaded shelves like the Robin; or—where I have never yet found nests—amongst the astelia clumps perched high on the great limbs of giant trees. Then again in what part of the island did the bird breed: on the tops or near the coast, in the gorges or on the saddles and ridges? Was a particular aspect favoured, as the Stewart Island Kiwi favours the west and north? What type of forest did the species prefer for building: open puriri and tarairi, mixed scrub, dense groves of tree-ferns, or the woods of the heights fleeced in filmy fern and furred with moss? Did they prefer gloom, or where the sunlight was able to filter through the boles?
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Bush On L.B.I.
There were endless contradictions to be reconciled, likelihoods to be interpreted, improbabilities to be solved. There were opportunities of error in every foot of every yard of the ten thousand acres contained in the island. In the earlier weeks of our search before we had localised mated cock and hen, every Stitchbird movement was a flash amongst solid steadfast boles or a dive into seas of greenery. As lovers revolve a glance or word, such clues as we possessed could by constant cogitation be made luminous as we inclined or darkly dim. For my part I anticipated we should eventually discover the nests in clumps of astelia, my companion that we should obtain them in situations not very different from those affected by the Robin or Pied Tit. Both of us were wrong; nor in truth did the habits and customs of the Stitchbird quickly enlighten us, for to the species in general the lines might fitly be applied—“everything by turns and nothing long”—“not one but all bird-kind's epitome.”
We were fortunate in locating the species. We began well, for Mr Nelson was able to show us birds the first day. Then for several weeks we learnt almost nothing more; no new discovery was made. We could find not the sign of an old nest; we failed to note the building of a new one. Even when at last, after nearly a month's search, a hen bird was seen with a bulky pinch of tree-fern hair in her bill, that single fatal fact—the one and only nest-building episode I have to chronicle—misled us into waste of days, or rather, since that is impossible in a New Zealand forest, busied us with nine days' fruitless search. She never reappeared; the problem to the end remained unsolved. Every bit of ground was inspected, every tree explored. Either some accident had occurred to the bird, or, since the material carried is everywhere plentiful, this hen for some unaccountable reason was unnecessarily carrying it from a considerable distance to her nest.
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Sittchbird.
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Stitchbird.
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Stitchbird.
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Stitchbird(M)
In its relation to other breeds, the characteristic of the race is a certain self-centred contentment; for instance, I cannot recollect an instance of either male or female chasing Pied Tit or Whitehead or Grey Warbler or Fantail, all lesser birds than they themselves. That these small fry are already sufficiently punished in not having been born in the purple, in not having chipped the shell as Stitchbirds, seems to be the line of thought. Though units of birds differ as do individuals of the human family, a fairly accurate estimate of the qualities of a race can nevertheless be formed after prolonged arm's-length intimate acquaintance. Nobody who has watched the details of Pukeko housekeeping can have failed to appreciate the social kindliness of the breed, or at equally close quarters to admire the honest enduring hatred towards strangers evinced by the Caspian Tern, or to note the cold-heartedness of the Pied Cormorant, or the humble-minded meekness of the Saddleback, or the wickedness of the Harrier, or the cantankerousness of the Kingfisher. Although, as I say, individual birds differ like individual men, yet each species has some trait or another that may be fairly termed characteristic.
Thus it may be that a certain levity in courtship marks the male of the Stitchbird clan. After an episode I was unfortunate enough to witness—one of those revelations which hurt the observer by tarnishing his ideal,—I could not but ascribe sad insincerity to all the cocks. For a long time I had been watching one particular bird: he was such a splendid specimen, and I did so believe the metal must be worthy of the mould—I suppose I had idealised him, and then—well, he committed a shabby action, one, alas! which I could not forget. The serenity of the hour was gone. I experienced a sort of uneasiness, a sort of guiltiness in his presence—I knew something of him that he did not know I knew. I feared, too, that at any moment he might again further compromise himself in my presence. Why, why could he not have taken a ripe berry and allowed me to nourish my enthusiasm? It was in vain I told myself that he might be a good family man, that he might perform his strict duty towards his consort. Even whilst I said it I was aware of the “little more and how much it is,” of the high devotion and punctilious chivalry that were wanting. He cannot have deeply cared for his mate, or why—it was my unfortunate lot to see everything—did he select as a courting gift not the very best and ripest of berries from the coprosma branch visited? I examined it. I counted the berries—there was but one missing, the green one I had seen in his bill—not, not the ripest of the lot already of a pale pink. It may seem a small matter; he may even have foreseen the hen would reject the offering. Still it was a gift, and should have been the best his means could afford; besides—remember I saw everything—there was a cavalierly carelessness in its selection, as if any berry would do. The choice of it, too, was made in unbecoming haste, perfunctorily, not at all after the fashion a lover should choose a gift for his fair. Worst of all—and the possibility, nay, the probability (for we know what men are) could not be driven from my mind,—had he not with every appearance of tenderness, with oaths and solemn vows, sworn it was the best in the whole forest, and imploringly apologised for its immaturity? As a matter of fact, that was the only act of courtship witnessed, whatever endearments may have passed in the thickets. Once only also did I see anything carried to a sitting hen—the solitary morsel appearing to be a small grub of some sort. Stitchbirds live, in fact, almost entirely on nectar. The hen whilst sitting is probably fed on it alone, either leaving the nest or being called oil the nest at about hourly intervals for that purpose. The nestlings were reared on the same ethereal food; the male himself almost exclusively lived on it, the only solid food—if indeed it could be termed solid—that passed his bill being “cuckoo spit,” the frothy excretion concealing a small insect, thick at Tutira and elsewhere in certain seasons on the leaves of the rangiora, and on Little Barrier on the leaves of other shrubs. Both insect and spittle were devoured—the original inducement to taste this unpleasant - looking creature perhaps being lack of moisture on the heights of the riven island.
A yet unsolved problem of Little Barrier is that of certain birds seen on three occasions by me in October—on two of these occasions, moreover, watched in the open within a few feet. In the little clearing I had made they were as close to me as if they had been caged. Whilst moving about the underwood in several small parties, sucking the nectar from the flowers of the alseuosmia, they uttered at frequent intervals what appeared to me to be their travel call, “stit,” “stit,” “stit.” In November and December I heard them less frequently, and saw but one bird. I never heard them calling high on the trees. Without capture and handling, their plumage seemed to be practically that of small hen Stitchbirds with colour contrasts dull. Some of them showed a thin yellow line about the mouth. They could not have been immature Bellbirds; they did not seem quite to be Stitchbirds. If, on the other hand, an unnamed species, why in three months' watching in the woods did we never meet a mated pair? Why, in the later part of the breeding season, did such as were heard appear to be still solitary? Leask, an excellent observer, most cautious, moreover, in his judgments, never happened to come across them in parties, and was inclined to believe they must be Bellbirds. Perhaps. If, however, they were Bellbirds, their habits of flight and call were unlike any Bellbirds seen elsewhere in New Zealand—in fact, they weren't Bellbirds. To me they seemed to bear the same relationship to the Stitchbird as do the “brownies” of Kotiwhenu to the Saddleback.
Although in October almost everywhere “sphiting” and “sttiching” could be heard throughout the bush, a wider experience led us to suspect that Stitchbirds were not so plentiful as at first surmised. A comparatively small number of individuals appearing and reappearing, like an army on the stage, would make a great show. Perchance, too, the remarkable powers of ventriloquism possessed by the Stitchbird, at any rate by the male Stitchbird, might have misled us in regard to numbers. I was fortunate enough on one occasion both to see the bird call and note the mystifying result. Four times, almost at arm's-length, he uttered his resonant “Ypstt.” The first time the call seemed behind me; the second directly ahead; the third to one side; and the fourth directly ahead but farther away. Prior to this experience I had believed we could gauge the male's approach pretty accurately by his calls—ever afterwards I distrusted the methods of this most accomplished polyphonist. Besides cries that might be variously rendered “stt,” “ptt,” and “whystt”—all of them containing a certain far-off resemblance to the English syllable “stitch,”—I have heard the male sing three times. One of these songs, a continuous low warble uttered within a few feet of me in late October, was, I believe, a courtship song. The others seemed to be soliloquies uttered to the bird itself; they were poured forth on both occasions perhaps for thirty seconds under the stimulus apparently of surprise or surprised anxiety, though, of course, no faintest trace was perceptible to the human ear of either emotion; the possibility indeed of surprise and anxiety has been suggested only for the reason that I myself as a human might have been subject under like circumstances to like emotions. One of these songs was uttered when for the first time the male discovered his entrance hole temporarily blocked by a turf of matted fern fibre. After thorough inspection of this miraculous sudden dark blockade, he fluttered rapidly down to near the base of a neighbouring tree, and there gave vent to what I have surmised might be astonishment and anxiety. A like song was called forth under somewhat similar circumstances when the male, returning, found the hen not on her eggs as he had evidently anticipated. Inadvertently I had baulked her return. She had remained away not for the usual five or seven minutes, but for two hours and fifty minutes. It was after scrutiny of the empty nest for half a minute that he poured forth the low sweet song recorded. He then gave a “sptt “or two, not, however, particularly loud, nor as if under mortal apprehension as to the fate of the eggs, and flew away. I believe I often feel more anxiety as to the fate of the eggs and nests than the birds themselves. At any rate, during that two hours and fifty minutes I was the prey of remorse, compunction, and fear in no common degree, whilst the heedless Stitchbirds were disporting themselves in the woods. This it is to have a feeling heart. At funerals I always suffer more than the nearest and dearest of the deceased; I weep more bitterly.
As the season advanced there seemed a slightly marked movement of the species towards the ocean. Pairs, for instance, were to be met with nearer the coast in localities where they had neither been seen nor heard before. There was something of a similar movement from the ridge-caps towards the gullies. Broadly speaking, the great bulk of the birds during the height of the breeding season were to be found in the depths of the steep open valleys, the central belt of the island.
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Stitchbird (F.).
Of the three nests most closely watched, two had stages built in front of them, from which we were able to note Stitchbirds' use and wont at the distance of a few feet. Our first was discovered on a Sunday afternoon late in November. 1
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Stitchbird And Nesting Hole.
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Stitchbird Nesting Hole.
Whilst the hen sits, the nesting hole is not often visited by the male. When that does happen he will look in for a fraction of a second, raising himself from below until his head is level with the hole; then having fed her he will disappear. Incubation is undertaken altogether by the hen. I watched a nest for nine hours one day and for ten hours another day, and found that she left the eggs at intervals averaging almost exactly sixty minutes. Immediately after vacation of the nest cavity she relieved herself, the droppings then being solid and relatively large, as those of sitting birds are apt to be. She then vanished into the bush, probably being fed by her mate at some considerable distance from the nest. He also appeared to be in the vicinity—galumphing as he came—every three or four hours. The hen never remained away for more than three or four minutes.
Both parents attend their young, both carrying in food, and both, doubtless assisting in the sanitation of the nest. Usually one bird enters about the time the other leaves. Sometimes both are away together; sometimes both are in the hole simultaneously. When that happens, when the female is within, her presence can always be inferred from the diffident hesitancy of the male when about to enter. Of the two parents the hen is the more anxious and careful.
During ten weeks' sojourn on the island, except on three occasions no indication whatever was afforded of courtship, of nesting, or of the rearing of the young. These three occasions the reader will remember were firstly, the hen seen to be carrying a billful of tree-fern scale; secondly, the proffer to the hen of a berry; and thirdly, the carriage of a small grub or caterpillar. The nests of most birds carefully watched can be located by activity in conveyance of building material. The Stitchbird gives no such clue; one nest serves for years, the site of the nest for scores of years, perhaps for centuries, for who can tell the permanence of a rift or a chink in a giant puriri? The nest year by year is merely repaired and renovated—renovated, moreover, with material procurable from every yard of the island. At a later period again no clue is given. Nests of most species can be found by food supplies visible in the parents' bills. The young of the Stitchbird appear to be fed entirely on nectar. Lastly, a big proportion of the nests are placed almost beyond eyeshot. Their discovery, therefore, is no easy matter. We were fortunate perhaps in the finding of the five.
1 The day had been earmarked for photography of a Robin's nest; we had not, however, taken into account the scruples of Ruth, the small daughter of our kind host and hostess. After contemplating with round astonished eyes our scandalous preparations on this the first day of the week, at last she warned us plainly, “Oh, but God won't love you if you work on Sunday.” The offending cameras were put away, and virtue rewarded with a promptitude that does not always occur in this vale of tears—that afternoon Leask spotted our first Stitchbird's nesting hole.