Birds in a Rhodesian Garden
DURING six weeks spent in bird-watching in Southern Rhodesia my early hours--from five or six a.m. to breakfast-time—were spent in the Bushveld away from sight of man, but between whiles there was always the garden, and a garden in the heart of the Bushveld has always an attraction for birds, especially in seasons of drought, for a garden means dripping taps and:tanks, and and nd fruit-trees. In addition, we also scattered kaffir corn about as an attraction to the seed-eating birds. Among these were the Namaqua doves, which in Natal are called long-tailed doves—dainty, elegant, Dresden- china little doves, and although they are about ten inches in length more than half of that is tail. In the male the face and upper part of the breast are black, the rest of the plumage is mauve-grey, light brown and white, with the wing quills rich cinnamon-brown and a patch of peacock blue on some of them. On the ground you hardly notice these little doves as they creep rapidly along in search of food, but when they take to flight at your approach their beauty is a joy to see, and you cannot but be struck by the long, tapering tail, the two centre feathers of which are much prolonged beyond the others and each pair of feathers shortened towards the outside. The female is without the black head and breast.
The male Namaqua dove is no faithful life-long husband as some of the doves are reputed to be, but a gallivanting, amorous little gentleman, easily led astray and coquetting with any fair-faced, long-tailed female. He has a pleasant plaintive coo, which no doubt wins their hearts as well as his beauty.
The streaky-headed seed-eaters also came to the garden in abundance. They are dull-coloured little birds with conspicuous white streaks on their heads, and white throats. In the Bulawayo Museum this bird is wrongly described as the " white-throated seed-eater," which is a different species altogether. Stark and Sclater describe the streaky-headed seed-eaters as " rather silent birds." That also is wrong, for I heard them in the garden and in the Bushveld constantly, singing quite adorably in clear, canary-like notes, from the top of a tree.
The red-billed weavers were generally with the streaky- headed seed-eaters, the males in their velvety brown and rose-pink so much handsomer and more conspicuous than the brown and grey females. And then there were the blue-breasted waxbills, feeding on the ground like any common sparrow, darling birds of the Bushveld with breasts of pure turquoise, the most friendly of all the Those other little fellows about four inches long, known as the scaly-feathered weaver birds, were always enter- taining, and deserved better from man than being given a name suggestive of an unpleasant disease, rather than of plump, jolly little birds of lively, fearless disposition, and pretty, too in a demure way in their brownish-grey plu. mage. The inappropriate name relates to the black and white feathers on the head, which dimly suggest the overlapping of scales or plated armour. The schoolboy's name of " mossie " is more attractive and has an air of affection due 'to a little bird with a delightful mischievous charm about him. " Mossie " is the familiar name also given to the Cape sparrow, but the two species do not seem to inhabit the same areas.
The scaly-feathered weaver birds generally build several nests on one tree. The nests are dome-shaped and untidy looking, with the ends of the grasses sticking out in all' directions, suggestive of slovenly house-keeping. I suppose these talkative little birds are too socially inclined to have time to keep their houses in order. I have seen-several of them flying in and out of one nest as if there was a doubt about the rightful ownership.
One morning about slit o'clock I heard a great com- motion in the garden. The blue-breasted waxbills, the red-billed weavers, the scaly-feathered weavers, the mouse-coloured fly-catchers, and the golden-breasted buntings were all screaming and excitedly flying about one particular tree. Feeling sure that there was a snake there I went out and peered into the heart of the tree, and, seeing no snake, I walked away to watch a scarlet- chested sunbird in all his morning glory, velvety black and red against a blue sky. Still the screaming and excited flutterings went on, and I went back to the birds to find myself almost treading on a snake at the foot of the tree. I must have missed it the first time by a foot. Going in for a golf club I called a native to kill it, which he quickly did, but without being able to help me in identifying the snake beyond saying that it was one which spits. On the only two occasions on which I encoun- tered snakes in Southern Rhodesia I was warned of their presence by birds. But my most thrilling moment in that garden was when I startled from a hedge two .of those amazing and most curious little birds, the lesser puff-back shrikes, the male with his feathers all puffed out just like a powder puff, and both birds screeching as they flew to a tree close by. Gradually their excitement subsided and so did -the powder puff, and the red-eyed little black and white shrike became just an ordinary little bird searching for insects. Of all the odd things birds do under the stress of excitement this is quite the oddest.
It was a red-letter day, too, when I first saw the Southern red-faced weaver finches, first the female and then the male, such beautiful little birds to find in the back-garden, the female quite unembarrassed by my following her about to gaze at her beauty as she pecked at seeds on the ground. The male sought shelter, trying hard to make me believe he was only part of the hedge, but I saw him clearly in all his perfection with his scarlet face and throat, olive yellow, black and golden-orange plumage, the bright crimson patch on the lower part of his back, and the barred breast—oh ! a beautiful thing to remember with joy and gratitude all the days of one's life.
It was on a tree just outside the sleeping porch where,
unobserved, one could watch, that I first had a good look at the grey tit and listened to his clear musical notes, very different from the harsh notes of his little cousin the black tit, who alsq visited the garden occasionally, noisily flying from branch to branch in search of his daily food—a handsome little black-a-moor with a thin white stripe on his wings. Tits are always fascinating to watch, be they grey or black or blue. I notice that Ayres describes the grey tit as having a " harsh note,". but I cannot believe that he ever heard the bird sing, for the song. I heard was anything but harsh.
To this marula tree came, too, those birds of gold, the masked weavers; and there it was that I first watched closely the pied barbet, that striking little bird of black and white and sulphur yellow with the scarlet patch on his forehead, jerking his whole body up and down with the effort of song—" poop, poop, poop," over and over again. For curious notes no birds of the Bushveld can beat the barbets ; wonderful carrying powers their voices have too. • I sometimes saw and heard the striped kingfisher perched on a high tree, singing vigorously with a pleasing note. He is not so conspicuously beautiful as most of the kingfishers, but a lovely thing nevertheless, with his blue back and tail, and red bill and legs. He feeds on insects, like the brown-hooded kingfishers, and I have often seen him far from water. We had only to look up in the air, too, to see daily swallows and swifts and martins. The yellow-billed kite and the Wahlberg eagle also flew over- head frequently. One day came the little sparrow-hawk which Stark and Sclater say " has not yet been noticed in Southern Rhodesia," and after rain came flocks of red- legged kestrels and with them the white-bellied storks, in search of the flying ants and other insects, while down below the house at the darn a whole flock of white egrets would alight on a tree for hours at a time, looking like giant blossoms white as snow.
- Then when the heat of the day was over the garden was not wide enough for the short spell of daylight left, and once more the Bushveld called—for wonderful things, one knew, were waiting there to be heard and seen.
MADELINE ALSTON.
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