Return of the robin!

We've neglected this blog for far too long - but like the robin, it's back. Jill Wylie wrote dozens of short pieces for the papers, SPCA reports, and herself - charming, humorous, redolent of her mantras: Be attentive to life; praise life; save every possible life. Here are two encounters with birds:

RETURN OF THE ROBIN

He’s back! His rich repertoire of impersonations includes some numbers I haven’t heard before and I just wish I knew the composers.

So where’s he been all this time? He starts with an impressive rendering of the Fish Eagle’s famous call, so I take it he basked away the winter months on Lake Chikamba’s balmy shores, around the mountain in Mozambique.

His “Crowned Eagle” is pretty good, too. He even gets the variations of tone as the eagle somersaults in display. At the sound of this the dogs used to rush out to protect the bantams and scan the skies, until they learned to detect the subtle differences from the real thing.

Much the same happened when he first imitated the lazy whistle of the builder across the way – an amazingly low note for such a small bird. The dogs hurtled out yelling about trespassers being bitten, chewed up and prosecuted, only to slink home, embarrassed to the roots.

We, too, have to watch for these subtle differences. Being involved in the bird atlassing project it’s important not to think you’re listening to the composer himself, live on air, and mark him on your card, when in fact it’s a plagiarised version by NR.*

It helps to know a bit about the local birds. I mean, when you hear a Fiery-necked Nightjar good-lord-delivering-you at midday in sweltering October you might not be fooled. But if you didn’t realise that the Black-crowned Tchagra, a favourite with the robin, would be calling from the woodland rather than from the deep forest where you’ve been hearing him, you could easily add him to your list by mistake.

Others are not so obvious. His “Starred Robin” effort, for instance – from the LP which includes such well-known hits as Heuglin’s, Cape and Whitebrowed, as well as medleys and variations of many other songs – comes from the right place at the right time with the right pitch, tone and uneven rhythm. And how does one robin manage to sound like a whole flock of Bee-eaters?

I once watched several Natal Robins having a ding-dong in this forest. Some macho-dominance thing and not, as I first thought, united action against an enemy. For half an hour they threw at each other every birdsong in the book, cursed Crowned Eagles down upon each other’s head, cuckoos in their nests, shrikes and hawks upon their children and their children’s children. The result was like several radios on at once, each tuned to a different station.

I could have stopped it quite easily, I’m sure, by reaching out my hands and catching some of them. They paid me no attention at all, so busy were they working out new abuses.

Later I found a nest in that area, perched insecurely up where the roots of a strangler-fig fingered over rocks, in easy reach of my wild cats, servals, civets, genets, cuckoos and shrikes. In fact, I first noticed it when it was being raided by a boomslang. And there was a nest on the ground under a fern root near the rubbish pit, soon cleaned out, as I anticipated, by a giant rat. There are other nests around, many in ridiculous places. It seems that, in general, the Natal Robins lack a comprehensive home-planning policy, an area of concern that should be addressed as a matter of urgency.

Why do you suppose this robin imitates birds the way he does and makes such a thing of it, such an art? If it really is a smart idea why aren’t all the others onto it? Is there something different about his vocal apparatus that they can’t match? When he’s onto his own personalised see-saw song you can understand it’s the old routine: I’m me! This is my place! All other NRs take note!

Does he then go on to declare, “and that goes for you, too, Crowned Eagle! And Bulbul, and Nightjar, and Emerald Cuckoo, and Starred Robin and Heuglin’s and shrike! And you, too, builder-across-the-way ...You all keep out of my space, you hear!”

If so, there’s inflated ego for you.

On the other hand, I suppose he could just be having a load of fun and taken out a copyright on the game.

***

* Natal Robin. This was written before the Grand Names Change a few years ago. Now known as the Red-capped Robin-Chat, despite the fact that its cap isn't red at all, but a sort of rusty brown-grey. What were 'they' thinking?

******************

FLY, BABY, FLY!

This morning a tiny bronze mannikin, racing the dawn wind with his fellows, hit the window – bup! I ran to reach him before the cats, who know that sound as well as I do and are snatch-quick off the mark, while around him the excited twittering of his flock turned to shrill cries of dismay.

As he lay in my hand, eyes closed, head lolling, I could feel a million pulses still flying him full-tilt down the wind, and the stunned, incredulous gasps of the cells of his body panicking for instructions from a brain gone blank; then rushing to emergency stations, throwing switches, shutting down systems, stopping traffic. Swift, precise procedure as laid down for Dealing with Shock.

Or was it to be Dealing With Death? How can you tell from the outside?  Would those cells decide to give up the ghost, fold down upon themselves like hands prepared for burial, and leave, bowed and cowled, on the long lonely journey back to the soil – perhaps to become, in time, grass and seeds for other little mannikins?

Quick! Turn him right way up and keep him warm. Warmth means life. Fool them into thinking Plan A still holds! Put him in the dark warm recovery box kept ever ready for just this situation.

Dark. Pretend it’s night. Pulses, stop flying; slow down for sleep. Quiet, now. Total quiet. Wait an hour or so. Pray. I read somewhere You count every sparrow as it falls. Well, Lord, please count this one as it rises. Just this once. Won’t cost you a thing, honest. Wait on, until time to try ...

Softly, softly, I felt him in the dark. Warm. Supple. Pulses ticking over quietly. Cells holding steady. Feather whispering to feather: Hey, are you awake? Where are we? Should we go now?

I carried the box out to the garden, well away from cats and walls and windows, and eased the cover back. Daylight! He stared at me: Hell, what’s that? Doesn’t move so forget it for the moment. Cautiously he checked himself out – balance; batteries; fuel; oil in the joints; toes flex, unflex; right wing, left wing – cocked his head, took his bearings from the sun, and .... OK, let’s go! Let’s try! Loop, swoop, and away! Sun in the eyes! Sun on the wings! Fly, baby, fly!

Come on, you miserable old day, do your worst. Fetch me every stinking problem you can cook up and still I’ll spend you smiling. For I hear my little bird laughing with the morning. I even thought I heard him call, Thanks! as he reached again for the wind.

*****